


Oikeiôsis

by anth (antheeia)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Humor, Blind Character, Loyalty, M/M, Royalty, Scars, Slow Burn, Sparring, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/anth
Summary: Cedric is motivated by ambition when he volunteers to become Prince Sullivan's Escort Guard.Things, however, never seem to go quite the way he plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).



The first time Cedric saw the brat, he was sitting in the middle of his canopy bed, wrapped in silks and satins, pale figure so stiff and motionless one would have said he was made of alabaster. 

The frown on his thin lips was the most human thing about him.

He was draped even more than his bed was, the lad — face clad in laced blue silk covering his eyes and nose, his whole body eclipsed under soft fabric as if everything were too precious to show but his spoiled pout, his long blonde hair braided like a princess’s, and his flimsy little hands.

The brat must have heard Cedric walk in (he wasn’t exactly furtive, all harnessed with his armour as he was) but, being a brat, he didn’t show any sign of hearing the sounds, not even when the heavy door was closed behind Cedric and the two of them were alone in the room.

One could have thought the kid was deaf, as well as blind.

“Your Highness,” Cedric greeted, bowing his head, filling the silence with his most reverential tone.

Because the brat was Sullivan, Crown Prince of Euphea and Cedric’s future King, provided he did his work well — and Cedric hadn’t gotten to be designated as his personal guard and caretaker without a good measure of ambition. (In the Royal Palace, ‘ambition’ was the name everyone gave to what mostly consisted of grovelling to one’s superior and to the Royal family in the hopes of getting some important role and title, or in an attempt at keeping it.)

“You should kneel before your Prince,” were the first words Prince Sullivan spoke to Cedric.

And, since Cedric was ambitious, the prince didn’t have to speak them twice.

:♔:♘:♔:

The position of Escort Guard of the Prince was an unexpectedly undesirable one in the Court of Euphea. The reason, of course, was the prince himself.

Prince Sullivan was as bratty as princes came (not that Cedric personally knew many princes in his life, but he imagined no children could be as coddled and overindulged). He treated everyone, servants and guards, as if they were no more important than shite under the sole of his shiny leather shoes. He had the most difficult taste when it came to food, and every cook got discharged, sooner or later. He wanted a bath prepared every day and wouldn’t let anyone be in the room when he washed, changed, or slept, making the work of his sole escorting guard much harder. He liked listening to stories, but always found a reason to chase away even the best minstrels, one after the other. To top it all off, Prince Sullivan, left sightless by an ‘unfortunate accident’ in his youth, needed to be guided everywhere and helped with everything.

Cedric’s fellow royal guards received his idea of volunteering for the position with a laugh, before they realised the question wasn’t a joke. Then it became straight-faced disinterest.

“I’ll let you know when I feel like being a nursemaid,” Krista had replied to his proposal of volunteering together, shaking her head over the usual beer at the usual tavern. “I thought you’d be more of a man of action, Cedric,” she added, but it wasn’t a question and so she got no answer. They’d both let the matter rest there. 

Nineteen springs had passed since Prince Sullivan was born (Cedric remembered the celebrations: he had been eleven and it had been the first time he drank wine that hadn’t been watered down. He supposed he owed that to the little prince, at least.) Therefore, the lad was now already well over the age of leniency, where even royals got to act like spoiled kids instead of the future monarchs they should aim to be. 

But even if that wasn’t the case, Escort Guards weren’t usually expected to help wash the prince, change his clothes, guide him from one room to the other and read him bedtime stories.

Then again, the prince wasn’t usually blind, nor so quick-tempered and peevish to send away every single servant he was provided with, including the Guards that had volunteered before.

Cedric might not exactly have been a man of action (one couldn’t blame a man for aspiring to have a quiet, non-deadly life) but he was a stubborn one.

He told himself it couldn’t be that difficult to deal with a brat. Moreover, that brat would one day be king and, by then, they would all regret not having been the ones cleaning up his snot. 

He was sure of it, so he volunteered for the position.

After seeing the prince send a full plate flying across the room, missing the head of a manservant by less than three fingers (astonishing aim for a blind kid), Cedric wasn’t so sure anymore.

When he silently witnessed Prince Sullivan yelling at the same poor lad, ordering him to clean up the damask wallpaper that was now soaked with chicken broth, Cedric ultimately came to the foreseeable conclusion that he had made an error in judgement.

He could already hear Krista laughing.

:♔:♘:♔:

“Your Highness, your presence is requested in the dining hall.”

Less than a fortnight had passed since Cedric was assigned the role that should have been the turning point in his career. He had spent those first days either inside or outside the prince’s rooms, acting as the reluctant audience for the brat's tantrums.

And it was probably another tantrum he was dealing with right then, as it was the eighth time he was knocking on the prince’s bedroom doors, asking him to come out, receiving nothing but snarky answers in return.

“I heard you the first time, Cedric.”

If the brat’s voice sounded annoyed, that was nothing compared to the hidden exasperation seething inside his guard’s heavy, heavy armour. (Useless formality, considering that the prince’s whims were going to be the most fearsome enemies Cedric would face in the foreseeable future.)

“You're requested _ as soon as possible _ , Your Highness,” insisted Cedric, a whiff of his vexation huffing out of his mouth, just enough to keep him from exploding.

“I told you, I’m getting ready!” Prince Sullivan replied, voice a complaining monotone. “Are you deaf?”

Cedric’s chest heaved, up and down, bringing the armour’s chestplate along with it.

“Not at all, Your Highness,” he said, trying to channel a smile in his voice. (Not even inwardly referring to the prince as a brat helped anymore; in a month, Cedric would probably be begging to die in some hopeless battle somewhere. If he was still sane, that was.) “But I’ve been waiting here half an hour, and Queen Adena explicitly requested that we hurry.”

The fast, soft thump of the prince’s steps could be heard from the other side of the door. “My mother can walk her wrinkly face up here to my room if she’s in such a haste!” His protest was so aggressive it took even Cedric by surprise, and he stood there in silence, dumbfounded, as if someone had just struck him on the helmet. The sound of boots pacing on the stone floor echoed from the nearby room — both as Prince Sullivan got close and when he walked away. At least he had put on his shoes.

Almost a minute must have passed before Cedric breathed out a word again. (Truth was, he was worried he’d start laughing at the thought of Queen Adena’s ‘wrinkly face’ if he told her about the vocabulary his son used when referring to her.)

“Her Majesty wouldn’t be pleased to hear you talk about her like that,” Cedric tried reproaching the lad. He didn’t sound very convinced.

“Then don’t tell her.”

The sounds of steps from the prince’s bedroom got further away.

Cedric stood in wait, shifting in place from one foot to the other, chain mail clinking. His ears tensed, alert, trying to catch every little sound coming from the other side of the wooden door. But, soon enough, every sound seemed to have faded, and all that was left was the barely audible crackle of the fireplace.

Apprehension gripped Cedric's guts in a matter of seconds. Despite it all, it was his duty to prevent anything from happening to the prince, and the simple fact that Prince Sullivan walked around alone in that room concerned him. The kid was blind, for God’s sake. What if he tripped and fell on something sharp? What if he hit his head? What if someone ill-intentioned managed to get in from the room’s window? (Cedric could swear he had never experienced such a ridiculous mama bear instinct. Must have been an occupational hazard.)

Every possible disastrous scenario he conceived led him closer to the door, guiding his hand towards the handle until he found himself flinging the door open and walking inside the prince’s bedroom.

The spacious room was lit only by the fireplace in the corner and the open window in front of the canopy bed. A large carpet covered the floor in the center of the room, where, on a settee covered in blue satin, Prince Sullivan sat, alive, well, impeccably dressed and, judging from the expression on his lips, quite cross.

“Who exactly gave you permission to come in?” the prince practically squealed, freezing Cedric into place as if he was using some sort of magic. “What if I wasn’t finished dressing?”

Cedric sighed. It was half frustration and half relief, and he wasn’t sure which of the two he regretted showing more. He walked closer to the young prince, noticing for the first time his straight, blond hair; he didn’t usually wore it down, so Cedric had never noticed just how long it was. The ends brushed against the small of his back.

The Prince’s clothes were more elegant than usual: a refined golden pattern decorated his jacket, and the frilled shirt smelled so fresh Cedric could sense the scent from several steps away.

“But you  _ are _ finished dressing, Your Highness.” Cedric smiled, surprised by how sweetly his words melted on his tongue when he talked back, even if just a little. “Can we go?”

The prince stood up from the settee, lighting a small ember of hope in the middle of Cedric’s chest. Then he turned his back to the guard, splashing water on the feeble flame of optimism he had just finished kindling. 

“You couldn’t have known I was dressed,” complained the prince. “I told you, Cedric, you aren't allowed inside the room unless I give you permission, I don’t care what the reason is.” Any more than that and Cedric’s eyes would have rolled into the back of his head. A prince could not afford to be so obsessed with privacy, not with all the people he needed to have  around.

“Besides, I’m not ready,” continued the brat, the pout on his lips a reassuring sign that he wasn’t much more irritated than usual.  _ Yet _ . “I still need to fix my hair.”

Cedric’s fingers closed (gingerly, he could have sworn!) on the brat’s shoulder, forcing him to turn around. “It looks nice already,” he said, “let’s-” Then, the words died on his lips, because the prince flinched so violently, Cedric thought he was hurt. 

Prince Sullivan escaped Cedric’s grip and almost got out of his arm’s reach with a single leap. His lips were twisted in what looked like disgust.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Cedric stuttered, rushing words out of his mouth as fast as he could line them out of his brain.

(How could he forget? The kid might have been obnoxious, bothersome and spoiled, but ‘don’t touch me’ was a simple and direct enough request, wasn’t it?)

Prince Sullivan straightened his back, still half turned towards Cedric. The shallow nature of his previous tantrums was clearer than ever now that he was serious. Somehow, his whole body emanated an aura of authority; every single one of his icy words that followed was weighted like Cedric’s entire armour. The elegant choice of clothes probably helped but, regardless of it, there could be no doubt, right then, that the young man in front of Cedric had royal blood in his veins.

Cedric was at least two heads taller than the prince, but he felt as small as a toddler.

“The one before you was sent away for something much less serious,” said Prince Sullivan, simply. It sounded as if he was informing the guard of something trivial, meaningless. “Do you want to be remembered as the Escort Guard that lasted three days, Cedric?”

(Could the wind from the open window really make Cedric shiver under his armour?)

“No, Your Highness.” Cedric lowered his head. (There was no gaze to hold and the prince couldn’t appreciate the gesture, but he still felt the weight of a sightless pair of eyes he wasn’t even sure were there, behind the silk blindfold.) 

All was still for the longest moment. 

Then Cedric spoke again.

“In fact,” he began, (what did he have to lose? It was all or nothing.) “I’d like to be remembered as the one who stayed by your side all his life.”

The room itself froze.

Not even the bed’s silks were swayed by the spring air coming in from the window. Cedric’s worry and tension were more than enough to fill the room up to its high ceiling, and maybe even more.

In the thick, wintry silence, the prince’s chuckle exploded, loud like thunder.

“Oh, that was good,” he said, looking as if he was bursting a gut laughing.  His face, the part that wasn’t covered by the blindfold, was a shade of red Cedric would have judged impossible for the prince’s pale skin to reach. 

Cedric wasn’t sure what was so funny about his desperate (and mostly insincere) attempt at saving himself from the prince’s anger, but he still coughed a hiccupped, uncertain laugh out of his lungs, for good measure.

The prince’s finger ended up being pointed directly at his face, somehow.

“I bet you’re smirking right now, you sycophantic prick.” 

“Not at all, Your Highness,” Cedric lied, briefly wondering whether 'sycophantic' was an actual word or a made-up insult. No one could answer the question, however, so he shoved the thought away into the depths of his mind.

Prince Sullivan took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm down. His face was still flushed and his tone still breathy with giggles when he straightened his back.

“You’re not discharged, for now.” Prince Sullivan informed. His tone was much less authoritative than it should have been. Cedric finally inhaled properly. “Let’s go and hear what  _ wrinkle-face _ has to say.”

The air Cedric had just managed to finally breathe in came all out in the form of a chuckle. (An excessive reaction, of course. The Queen’s epithet wasn’t funny at all, but Cedric was captivated by the sort of giddy, relieved amusement one felt when the bad thing they had expected to happen didn’t really happen after all.)

He tried to hide it behind a cough.

“Please, Your Highness,” he reproached Prince Sullivan, pretending that the strangled tone at the beginning was but dryness in the back of his throat.

The brat sighed theatrically.

“All right. Let’s go and hear what  _ my smooth-faced mother _ wants from me.”

:♔:♘:♔:

“ _ Wrinkle-face _ ?” Krista’s laugh was louder than the brat’s, and undoubtedly coarser. (At least she wasn’t laughing  _ about _ Cedric, this time.)  “Well, the lad isn’t wrong, exactly.”

She slammed the half-empty pint of beer on the counter with such energy Cedric was surprised it didn’t break in half. The gesture sent drops of beer flying all around, undoubtedly contributing to the strong, characteristic scent of alcohol that place had. The woman's brown eyes flickered with that light only beer ever seemed to put inside them, and the dark, sun-kissed skin of her cheeks was slightly flushed with pink. (She wasn’t drunk, Cedric could tell, but she had definitely drunk enough to admit that the Queen had a lot of wrinkles.)

“ _ The lad _ is the most disrespectful person to ever be born!” Cedric took the second sip of the evening out of his own jug, more gracefully than she did, even if not by much. He looked around, worried to have attracted attention to himself, then continued muttering his complaints. “The King and the Queen follow his every whim, he could at least be grateful!”

Krista visibly rolled her eyes. “He was just throwing a fit, Cedric.” She shrugged. “He’s a kid!” Her voice was barely audible over the constant buzzing of the tavern around them.

Cedric shook his head, leaning closer towards her as if it helped him clarify his thoughts better. “He’s nineteen, Krista,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Her blank stare didn’t seem to agree.

“I enlisted when I was fifteen! You did when you were  _ fourteen _ ! He hasn’t been a kid for years now!”

She scoffed, as if he had said something absurd. She took another long sip, finishing what was left of the drink.

A girl with a familiar face, whose name Cedric couldn’t seem to remember, tapped Krista’s shoulder and handed her one of the two full pints she was holding, the drink’s foam dripping on the ground, on the counter, and on her clothes. "Hey, Krista!"

“I’ll be right there!” Krista nodded, raising the newfound full glass to greet the girl. Her gaze followed her friend until she sat at the leftmost table. Cedric recognised no more than a couple of faces sitting at it. When Krista turned back to him, there was no hurry in her movements, but he still felt as if he was stealing her time. (He had monopolized her more than usual, that evening.)

“Cedric, we’re commoners. You are the son of a cobbler,” she stated, simply. “He’s a prince!”

“Then he should act more like one!”

“Since when do you care so much about formalities, and being all prim and proper?” She sounded amused.

Cedric stared at the beer in his pint. For some absurd reason he felt that if he looked up, he’d blush. The last time he blushed he hadn’t even met Krista yet.

“Since I started working with an annoying brat that only respects himself,” he muttered, half aloud. He wasn’t really sure she had heard him until, after a moment, she chuckled.

(Unwittingly cracking hilarious jokes when he meant to say something completely serious was apparently becoming a habit of Cedric’s. He couldn’t say he liked that development.)

“That’s _your Prince and future_ _King_ you’re talking about, Cedric,” she said, mocking his words from some days before. “I’m sure he wouldn’t like being called that.”

Cedric’s staring contest against his undrunk beer finally came to an end, and the beer probably won it, too. He gulped down half the pint as a revenge, then gave Krista his widest full-toothed smile.

“Then don’t tell him about it.” He winked and gave a wordless nod that clearly meant “thank you, go be with your other, less boring friends”. (They were friends of many words, he and Krista, but greetings and goodbyes were never among them.)

Only when she stood up and left, Cedric realised that, for a moment there, he had sounded a lot like the little brat.


	2. Chapter 2

Cedric was starting to get used to standing in the antechamber the whole day, in front of the closed door of Prince Sullivan’s bedroom.

(He should have suggested they change the name from Escort Guard to Standing Guard, it would have been a much more faithful job description.)

A month after Cedric had been given the position, that room looked as familiar to him as his own bed in the barracks. Even the opulence of it had long since stopped feeling intimidating. Useless, finely adorned furniture, settees looking so delicate he doubted one could actually sit on them, carpets woven with gold, and, of course, the wooden double door, with a starry sky carved into it: the sight of all that had quickly become ludicrously familiar.

Almost more familiar than the sight of Prince Sullivan himself.

“Still waiting for him to get dressed?”

The croaking voice belonged to this old woman, whose face Cedric knew in much the same way he knew the patterns on the wall. The web of wrinkles on her face was engraved in his mind by the simple circumstance of its existence in the room, its constant presence at the corner of his eye.

Dust puffed out of the grey rag in her hands as she shook it around. (Now that Cedric was finally looking at her instead of assimilating her figure with the furniture in the room, he found himself asking if she really needed all that time to clean every day.)

“Poor kid,” the woman whispered, sounding like a whistling tea kettle, which completely defeated the purpose of whispering. “I pity him, sometimes.”

“Oh, you do?”

The old woman didn’t seem to pick up on the flagrant disinterest in Cedric's voice, and began monologuing, the dust cloth in her hand reduced to hardly more than an accessory while she circled around him. 

“He’s there, thinking his blindness is a gift of the Gods or something,” she said, “that it makes him superior and whatnot.” Cedric was tempted to interject (the prince was a brat, sure, but not  _ that  _ much of a brat — much to Cedric’s relief). However, the woman talked as if she didn’t need to breathe, thin voice shrieking and hissing, and that somehow persuaded him to listen to what she had to say.

“All that, his whole behaviour, really, is aggravating — nothing like his father’s, King Henry, of course. That is what a good king is like, young man: take a good look at him because that’s how your prince should be, a proud warrior, not a spoiled child.” Cedric didn’t even try and point out that the way the prince turned out to be was well outside his authority, and that he was  _ her _ prince too. (He wished he could go back to pretending the woman was a piece of furniture, but he was reasonably sure that it wouldn’t shut her up.)

“I mean, on the other hand, how else can a royal kid like him — crown prince, the only son of our King and Queen — and not for a lack of trying, I assure you, this eyes have seen more than you could imagine-” (Cedric definitely did not need to know that.) “A prince like him, I was saying, how else can he deal with the fact that he has an illness like that, you know-”

It took a stunned moment for Cedric to realise the woman had stopped talking because he was holding her wrist in a tight grip. He let her go, and she drew her hand to her chest, holding it in the other one.

“Illness?” he asked. He cleared his throat, pretending not to notice her glare. “Wasn’t he blind because of an accident?”

She went back to cleaning, her shoulders visibly stiff under the patched up clothes. She drew the curtains open, flooding the room with the warm midday sun. (How could the brat still be sleeping?)

The woman’s reply arrived, a bit late, announced by the hissing sound of air exhaled through her missing teeth. “Have you ever seen proof that it was an accident?” she challenged. “I heard his eyes are all white like milk.” Her eyes were unnaturally wide when she turned, and she gestured at them with her inseparable dusty rag still firmly in her hand. “And that whoever touches him loses their sight, too.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

At that point, Cedric regretted having ever paid attention to her. He almost yearned for the prince's tantrums. 

“You’re free to doubt my words, young man, it’s your sight you’re risking,” the woman croaked, all wrapped in that arrogance and presumption old people were inclined to. (Cedric hoped that someone killed him before he became like that.)

“Oh, come on! You can’t actually believe that!” Cedric coughed out a laugh. He heard some sounds — soft steps, naked feet on a hard stone floor — coming from the other side of the door, but he was too busy being bewildered to celebrate the brat finally leaving his damned bed. “You’re telling me no one has touched the prince ever since he went blind? Not even his parents?” he said, whispering to prevent the brat’s fine ears from intercepting his words.

“Especially the King and the Queen,” she said, tone all but somber, gaze staring into the distance while her trusted companion, the dirtiest dust-cloth Cedric had ever seen, disappeared in the large pocket of her apron. “I know of no one who did.”

Cedric really couldn’t resist scoffing. (Not that there was some reason to watch his manners with that dingbat of a woman.)

“Well, you know of one now,” he told her, not without a hint of pride.

“Who?”

Cedric sighed. “Me. Cedric, Escort Guard of the Prince.” He held out his hand, offering it to her.

Her eyes widened, this time in surprise, and her expression peculiarly stretched the deep wrinkles of her face. She stepped back, almost stumbling on her gown. She didn't shake his hand.

“I can assure you, nothing happened!” Cedric insisted, still chewing on his laugh, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Well, if you don’t count me almost getting thrown out three days after getting the job.”

But, before he could finish talking, she was gone.

From the other side of the door, Prince Sullivan’s voice called Cedric’s name. After that shrill conversation, it seemed the sweetest sound to ever reach his ears. He followed it gladly, shaking off with a shrug the odd exchange that had just taken place.

:♔:♘:♔:

After that day, Cedric didn’t see the old woman again, not even as a background presence when she cleaned the antechamber. He couldn't say he minded her absence.

What he cared about, however, was the way the conversation he had with her kept weighting on his mind.

As a rule, Cedric did not try to put himself in other people's shoes. He was not that kind of person, and keeping his own shoes from falling apart was burdensome enough for his taste. But, after the conversation with that weird woman, his mind had started tormenting him with an assortment of questions he couldn't start to tackle even if he wanted to, all concerning the brat and the reasons behind his behaviours.

(Cedric might have had many good qualities: ambition, strength, good reflexes, adaptability; but he also had flaws, and curiosity was one of them. It was an inconvenient trait to have when the prince he was tasked with protecting liked to be so mysterious.)

He wasn't sure what he, of all people, could do about his questions. He wasn't exactly the smartest person he knew. That was probably Krista, but she told him to forget about it, that it was none of his business, and that meddling in the Royal Family's secrets was a dangerous affair.

So, Cedric continued his life as usual, for a while at least.

Every night, two members of the Royal Guard came to relieve him of duty. He always used his free hours to hit the pub, get Krista to pick his mind for a bit, then go to bed with those two or three pints on his stomach lulling him to sleep. (He jealously guarded that particular routine, maintaining that it was the one thing that could keep him sane when work was bloody, or, as of late, when it bored him out of his mind.)

But he allowed himself to slightly, almost imperceptibly deviate from that routine once — after a day spent in the antechamber, in front of the prince's bedroom door, vainly trying to convince the damned brat to come out of the room, or at least to let Cedric in. It got especially claustrophobic, with the warm early spring sun kissing the world outside to life and him being trapped inside that cold, dull castle, because the brat insisted on staying shut inside his room.

He guessed that, for the prince, life was like being trapped in a small space all the time, with the fact he couldn't see and everything, so whether he stayed inside or outside really didn't change much for him. (Or maybe that was completely wrong — this empathising thing was a fairly new game for Cedric.)

Anyway, with all that idleness, thoughts had been especially loud that day, and thinking about what had happened to the prince to make him like that was better than making his own scars itch with the memories of past battles and fallen friends, after all.

So, by the time his two colleagues relieved him of his duty for the night, Cedric was in an unusually pensive state.

He didn’t even look at them, parting from them with barely more than a nod but, halfway down the flight of stairs, he turned back. He climbed the stairs again, two steps at a time, and strode into the familiar room.

He had registered the information a bit late, but one of the two guards was a familiar face.

A well-kept grey beard covered most of his face now, but Cedric didn’t have a doubt: the man used to be a high-ranked member of the Royal Guard back when he enlisted. So he was probably involved in keeping the royal family safe, back when ‘the accident’ happened. Asking him seemed like a safe bet.

"Do you know what happened to the prince?” Cedric uttered, out of breath, without even greeting the two again. He saw confusion, then alarm, cross the two men’s faces — the younger one’s thick, black curls bounced as he turned towards his older colleague. Cedric swallowed a mouthful of air and clarified. “Years back, the accident that made him blind. Do you know anything about it?"

The two exchanged a glance that was all furrowed eyebrows.

The older one (if memory served Cedric right, his name was Clacher and his swordsmanship was something to be afraid of) stared at him with what must have been a long-practiced straight face. "From what I heard about it at the time, he fell," he answered.

"He fell." Cedric couldn’t hide his disbelief. (If that was a joke, it wasn’t funny.)

"It was an unlucky fall." Clacher shrugged.

"He fell  _ from where _ ?"

"A horse? Or maybe it was a tree?"

"He fell from a horse and went blind," Cedric repeated. This time he didn’t even try to hide his skepticism. “Are you making fun of me?”

The younger guard, seeming alarmed, made a step back in the corner of Cedric’s line of vision (Cedric hadn’t even raised one hand, that guy was way too easily startled), but the old Clacher stood unperturbed. He even rolled his eyes a bit.

"Look, kid,” he snorted, “that's what I heard back then. No one wanted to talk about it and I thought it would make sense for them to keep it a secret if the reason was so stupid, don't you agree?"

Cedric didn't agree.

:♔:♘:♔:

Questioning other people didn't bring better results. 

According to the cook, whom Cedric approached by asking about the latest delicacy that ended up delighting nothing but the wall of the prince’s room, the ‘accident’ was actually a conspiracy, and the prince had been poisoned. He wasn’t able to name the poison responsible, according to his version of the story, for accidentally leaving the prince sightless instead of killing him, and he couldn’t begin to imagine the motives of the alleged conspirators. (But, Cedric had to admit, that version was way more believable and detailed than “he fell”.)

According to the other guards back at the barracks, an unspecified beast attacked the kid during one of his father’s hunting trips. In each story, the animal was different: options ranged from a wild cougar to a hawk, to a pet cat. The dynamic of the incident varied, as well, and was mostly unrealistic. Cedric seriously doubted a five-year-old child would be brought along during a hunting trip to begin with.

According to the nursemaid from when the brat was a loud, crying newborn child, Prince Sullivan was cursed. (That was absolutely not worth the time Cedric poured into tracking the old lady down. It wasn’t even a good laugh.)

That coachman would be the last person Cedric would question. After that, he would give up, whether he had gotten a believable answer or not. (Sure, he’d told himself the exact same thing before asking the cook, when explaining the situation to each fellow guard he happened to meet back at the barracks, and while investigating the position of the nursemaid’s oldhood home. But  _ this time _ he meant it. Really.)

Said coachman could be found in the royal stables, caring for the horses. His allegedly unmistakable lanky frame could be seen slouching around carrying hay, or standing in front of a stall, grooming one of the horses. His name was Owen, and he was supposedly quite loquacious.

Visiting the stables turned out to be the hardest part of the task.

Cedric insisted on taking the occasion to drag the brat out to breathe some fresh air — mostly because Owen could be found in the stables only during the day, and Cedric was stuck with the prince during that time. The brat, to avoid any risk of not living up to his epithet, gave Cedric the hardest time, until, exasperated, the guard played what he felt was the last card in his rather disappointing hand (he was never gifted at diplomacy).

“If you don’t get out of this room right now, Your Highness, I swear on my right hand I’ll carry you out myself. You’ll probably send me away afterwards, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get you outside.” Cedric didn’t mean it to be so aggressive, and the awareness of the likely consequences he had just recklessly brought upon himself came a sentence too late.

Surprisingly, there was silence on the other side of the door. For the longest moment, even Prince Sullivan and his insolent tongue seemed to be petrified.

Then, the prince opened the door and in the blink of an eye he was standing was in front of Cedric, his permanent frown more pronounced than ever.

“Fine, you win,” the brat said, his arms crossed on his chest. “But I hope for your sake it ends up being a pleasant experience.”

Cedric exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Guiding the prince around the castle without touching him had proved to be easy: the lad was extremely skilled at following sounds, and the echo of Cedric’s steps on the stone ground was more than enough most of the time. Leading him outside, however, was going to be much more complicated.

Prince Sullivan stopped on the castle’s doorsteps. The wind pulled at his clothes, plainer than usual and a bit too large on his small frame. He held a white, thin cane in both his hand, gripping it so staunchly Cedric thought he might break it.

He gave the lad a little while, and watched as he seemed to get used to the wind brushing against his face, flowing through the fabric of the blindfold, ruffling his carefully braided hair, whistling in his ears. He observed as the prince hesitantly tested the ground in front of him with the cane.

Then, Cedric got bored.

His grip closed around the cane, right under the prince’s hand, and he started pulling him along. (No one had said anything about touching the cane, after all.) Prince Sullivan, of course, protested, with one remarkably high-pitched rendition of Cedric’s name.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but this is never going to be a pleasant experience if we take one hour to get where we need to get, and your threat earlier was rather convincing.”

The pout didn’t leave his face, but the prince stopped protesting. (Maybe Cedric’s diplomacy skills weren’t so bad after all.)

Once they got to the stables, Cedric felt as content as if he had just successfully completed the most difficult mission of his career. In comparison, convincing Prince Sullivan to bear the smell in order to pet the horses was plain, smooth sailing.

Owen was exactly where Cedric had been told he would be. His tall, dirty blond head was covered by a hat and he was apparently exchanging some words with a big, heavy-looking horse in the far corner of the structure. He was easy to approach with questions about the animal, and seemed to want nothing else but to talk to someone about anything.

“Just a curiosity, Owen,” Cedric finally began, when he thought the turn of the otherwise forgettable conversation was favourable. “Have you heard the rumor about the prince’s condition being caused by a horse? Doesn’t that-”

Cedric’s words turned into a confused groan when he saw Owen sag to the ground and become limp like a sail when the air suddenly goes still. He would have thought the man was dead and would be drawing his sword in alarm, if he didn’t hear a thin murmur muffled by the hay all over the ground. “Your Highness,” Owen was saying.

Cedric rolled his eyes at the overzealous reaction, but before he could turn to face the brat, he felt the hard tip of what he recognised to be the prince’s cane sink into his side. If it didn’t hurt, it didn’t seem to be due to a lack of trying on the lad’s part, but rather thanks to the armour Cedric was wearing.

“Cedric.” The prince spoke slowly, and he didn’t sound very happy. (Not that he ever sounded anything but bitter.)

Cedric turned just as slowly, keeping the tip of the cane at a safe distance. 

“Yes, my Prince?” Only after wearing it, he remembered that the fake smile was useless. 

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

The prince was gripping Cedric’s collar barely an instant after he had uttered those words. As frail and delicate as they looked, his hands turned out to be unexpectedly firm.

“Don’t talk about the accident, don’t ask around about it, don’t gossip about me.” The mask of anger on what he could see of the brat’s face was all bared teeth and throbbing neck veins. “That is an order, Cedric, and I will not repeat it. Do I make myself clear?”

Cedric’s already strangled affirmative response was cut in half by the Prince’s hand closing around his wrist, pulling him along. At that point, Cedric wasn’t even surprised by the quickness of his pace.

As he followed the prince back inside the castle, letting himself be dragged right up to the bedchamber, Cedric kept trying to gulp down the bad taste on his tongue. He was mostly unsuccessful.

:♔:♘:♔:

After his disastrous failure at investigating the mystery around the prince’s accident (and Krista’s heartfelt ‘I told you so’), Cedric promised himself to act as pleasantly and agreeably as possible around the brat. He wasn’t even sure why Prince Sullivan hadn’t sent him away yet, when Cedric admittedly seemed to be doing anything he could to cross him, but he tried to make the best of that second (or third) chance he had been allowed.

His renewed good intentions (and a request from the prince) were the main reason that led Cedric to a place as unfamiliar as a library, and well outside his working hours, too.

To be exact, Cedric was scanning the bookshelves of the royal family’s library, by candlelight, looking for a title Prince Sullivan had requested.

He was alone in the room, the atmosphere was all but chilling, and Cedric’s eyes were starting to play tricks on him, making his search twice as difficult as it already was in the dim light of a single candle. The number of book spines with titles in unfamiliar languages far surpassed the number of those Cedric could actually read, and it was getting frustrating. (He wondered if the prince knew other languages. Maybe he sounded less bratty when speaking in a foreign tongue.)

Cedric kept saying the title the prince requested, muttering it to himself again and again, worried he’d forget it. He was so focused on repeating the words in some sort of singsong, that he almost missed the book even when it was right in front of his eyes, and had to go back a shelf and finally take it. It was a collection of Euphean fairytales.

His victorious gesture was so abrupt it put the candle out, leaving him in pitch darkness.

It took a while to get back to the prince’s chambers.

It was such a strange feeling, walking past the guards into the bedroom, and as he did Cedric had that distinct feeling of being in the wrong place. As if he belonged out there, after all, or maybe even somewhere else completely.

The chamber was plunged in white moonlight, and it looked like an eerie vision from a forgotten childhood dream. Even the prince, standing next to the window in his night garments, glistened in the dimness like a ghost. He was leaning on the windowsill as if trying to look outside, thin fingers entangled in his hair, in the act of undoing his braid.

He was unbelievably graceful. (Such a shame that he had to have that bad a temper.)

Cedric walked up to him in silence and handed him the tome with a slight bow.

“The book you requested, Your Highness.”

Prince Sullivan didn’t react, and Cedric stood there, book in hand, for what seemed like the longest time, as the brat slowly finished undoing his hair and took a deep breath. He seemed to have taken a liking for fresh air since their excursion to the stables. Cedric had been dragged outside several times already, although never beyond the stone-paved porches. He hoped this wasn’t the prelude to another of those unplanned outings, as the tiredness of the day was starting to make itself hard to ignore, aching in his wore down muscles, weighing down his eyelids.

“You took a long time,” commented the prince, finally, as he accepted the book.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric replied instinctively, before he had even truly received the prince’s words. “Should I call someone to read it to you?”

“No.” The prince walked away from the window. The way he went around the room, avoiding obstacles without any aid, one would think he could see perfectly well.

The laced silk escaping his blindfold’s knot swayed along with his hair as he sat on his bed. He looked so small, in the middle of that expanse of blue sheets, under the night-tinted canopy, like an island in the middle of a desolate sea. Just looking at him, Cedric felt a dull, weary sadness twist inside his chest. (That was definitely his tiredness playing tricks on him.)

“Come here,” Prince Sullivan commanded, swiftly breaking that awful spell, bringing Cedric back to reality. His weary legs moved on their own, until he was standing next to the bed, staring at the prince now almost completely hidden under his blankets. “You read it to me.”

Cedric stared at the book the prince was handing back to him as if it was a creature out of a nightmare.

“What?” he stuttered.

“There’s a candle on the bedside table; light it and read.”

Cedric took the book, compelled by the prince’s asserting tone, then stared at it like he probably looked at those tomes written in foreign languages, back in the library..

“Your Highness, I mean no disrespect, but I don’t think I’m the right person for the job,” Cedric worded, as carefully as his sleepy mind would allow.

“Can’t you read?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then read.”

Cedric could decipher written language as well as the next commoner, but he had never read anything for pleasure. It had always been nothing but an occasionally useful skill for him, and not one he exercised much.

However, the brat’s tone didn’t seem to admit any kind of reply.

So, reluctantly, Cedric followed the prince’s instructions. He pulled a nearby chair (the stuffed seat was so comfortable he could have fallen asleep on it if he closed his eyes), lighted the candle, and opened the book.

(If that was some devious attempt at humiliating him, it wouldn’t work, Cedric decided.)

He cleared his throat and, slowly but steadily, he started reading. The first fairytale in the book was about a princess, cursed when she was still in her cradle to never be able to leave her castle, on pain of death.

By the time Cedric got to the end of the first page, where the now grown-up princess hopelessly yearned for freedom, the brat was already sleeping soundly. Cedric closed the book with a sigh, every bone and muscle in his body aching for the solace of his own uncomfortable little bed in the barracks.

The prince’s chest rose and fell quietly, the frown on his face gone now that he was finally relaxed. He looked almost nice, with that expression on his face. So much that removing the blindfold and seeing what was under it was an idea that Cedric only considered for the shortest time, right when it flashed in his mind, and then hurriedly chased away. He even almost felt guilty.

:♔:♘:♔:

Seeing the prince mounting a horse probably surprised everyone in the castle.

The stable boys chattered excitedly, amused, stunned or simply curious. Guards, servants, craftsmen, spinners alike — Prince Sullivan seemed to capture everyone’s attention, and no one refrained from at least shooting a passing glance at him. Cedric couldn’t blame them, as the brat really was a regal sight, all draped in his blue and golden clothes, back straight, blond braid caressing the small of his back, body slightly swaying, following the horse’s walking pace. Cedric wondered if he felt the weight of all those gazes, if he was aware of them. They didn’t seem to affect his good mood.

Staring at him for longer than all of those people combined, and more surprised, amused, stunned and curious than anyone else, was Cedric.

He couldn’t believe his ears when the prince came up with the idea, out of the blue. They were eating, which meant that Cedric was staring longingly at the delicious-looking plate of food the prince was nibbling at. The prince had been silent all morning, but had wanted Cedric to spend it with him in the bedroom, instead of the antechamber. (It hadn’t been any less boring, but at least he wasn’t alone.)

Lunchtime brought the aroma of good food, and the promise of a more interesting half-hour, dedicated to finding out just what was wrong with the prince’s lunch this time. Strangely enough, it did not deliver on its promise but, even more peculiarly, it did end up being interesting for a completely different reason..

“Cedric, I want to ride a horse,” blurted out the prince all of a sudden, letting his fork fall down in his plate with a clink, as he squeezed his fists on the table.

It left Cedric stunned, unsure of what to say for a long moment. (The brat? Not only wanting to go out, but asking to actually  _ do _ something for once, without being forced to? Maybe there was some kind of toxic mould in the slop he had just finished eating and he was hallucinating.)

“Of course,” he managed finally. “You’ve never been on one?”

“Not alone.” Cedric couldn’t be sure, with the blindfold covering most of his cheeks, but he could have sworn the prince’s face was flushed.

“I’ll teach you,” Cedric replied, a smile spreading on his face.

Not even one hour later, the prince was riding a well-behaved mare in the castle’s courtyard. He moved the reins back and forth along with the animal’s movements, just as Cedric had explained to him, and sometimes stroked her neck or the back of her ear. (Honestly, Cedric didn’t really need to walk beside him, as there was no risk he’d lose control of the horse.)

The brat looked as if he was having fun. It was something about the healthier colour on his face, or maybe the tiny hint of a smile slowly growing into a wide grin, showing the white pearls of his teeth and a hint of dimple at its sides. It took a while before Cedric realised that it was the first time he had seen the prince smile. (What swelled in his chest must have been pride.)

Of course, making the brat happy was not part of his duties, but a happy prince was a nice prince (probably): seeing him like that couldn’t be anything but good news.

Therefore, when Cedric saw Krista standing guard at the entrance of the courtyard, it was with a light heart and in a nice mood that he left the prince’s side, just for a moment. (“You’re a natural, Your Highness. Keep it up, I’ll be right back!” he told him, and the brat just nodded and smiled uncharacteristically, focused on the reins as he was.)

Krista looked even more menacing in her shining armour, and she grinned at Cedric when she saw him get close.

“Did you forget where the tavern is, or has the little prince completely enslaved you, uh, Ced?” she said, in place of a greeting.

“I’m sorry, Krista.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I was very busy.”

The pat hit his back him more vigorously than usual, with the weight of the armour adding quite a bit of force to it. Cedric coughed out a laugh.

“Busy winning him back?” Krista asked, lowering her voice only a bit.

Cedric nodded, scratching the back of his neck. He guessed he had been forgiven already, judging from how the lad acted towards him, but one could never be too sure. (If he had to be frank, he’d admit he was starting to find it difficult to just say no to the prince, which lead to him staying up in his room way past his work hours. That had little to do with seeking forgiveness, and a lot to do with him going too soft on the brat. But Krista didn’t need to know that.)

“And how’s the annoying brat? He looks like he’s doing fine up there,” she asked, raising her chin in the prince’s general direction. 

“He’s-”

The conversation was interrupted by the whining sound of the prince’s voice, calling Cedric’s name, urging him to go back with a screeching note that could have even been panic. Cedric sighed.

“He’s a brat, and he’s annoying, as you can see.” He uttered the words as quickly as possible, turning to look at the prince and then back at her. “Sorry, I have to go,” he added hurriedly, already walking back.

“You know where to find me,” she shouted behind him. (For some reason, she sounded amused.)

 

Once he got back to the horse, Cedric found the prince back in his usual foul mood.

As soon as he heard Cedric approach, the prince dismounted without a word, groped the horse’s saddle for his cane, finally grabbed it and started walking away. All as if Cedric wasn’t even there. 

Cedric mutely rolled his eyes, then moved in pursuit of the brat, apparently yet again in the middle of one of his tantrums. He followed the prince through a good part of the courtyard, wondering what could have gone wrong in the short span of time he had spent exchanging words with Krista. Maybe Prince Sullivan had gotten frustrated with the horse? Maybe someone had said something to him that made him upset? (And why was the lad so complicated to understand, anyway?)

Since the prince seemed to be set on offering no words of explanation, Cedric decided he’d stop staring at his back and ask for them.

“Is something wrong, Your Highness?”

At his words, the prince halted in his tracks and turned around with a swift movement, his braid swaying behind him. His lips were contracted in a grimace, his face all flushed, and he gripped his cane furiously.

“What do you mean? I’m just being an annoying brat, as usual,” the prince hissed, his voice as cold as the barracks in the middle of the winter.

“What are you talking about?” Cedric’s question came spontaneously, several seconds before his mind started catching on what probably had happened.

“Drop your act, Cedric.” Prince Sullivan snorted. “You said it, earlier, talking to that woman.”

“You heard  _ that _ ?”

“I’m blind, not deaf.” The prince crossed his arms, face turned away. Cedric mourned the smile that just some minutes earlier was replacing that frown of reddened, bitten lips. He didn’t know what to say. He had a feeling just apologising wouldn’t do it anymore.

“You think I’m just a spoiled child, don’t you?” Prince Sullivan muttered, standing perfectly still. People around them shot them glances as they passed, and Cedric felt incredibly self-conscious, as if they could see his stupid mistakes just hanging over his head.

“Your Highness, that’s not true,” Cedric tried his most appeasing tone. “I never meant to disrespect you.”

The prince tapped one of his feet on the ground, lifting puffs of dust. He clicked his tongue. “Oh, spare me,” he grunted. “You’re a soldier, you’re independent and you got where you are with your own strengths, so you look down on me. You think I can’t take care of myself?” The prince’s tone of voice progressively rose, until the gazes that people directed at them lingered more and more.

“I never said you can’t,” Cedric whispered, and he barely held back his hands from gripping the prince by the shoulders, to try and shake him out of it, at least until they were inside. (He suspected the reaction to his unprompted touches would get violent that time, and he really didn’t care to see that.)

“You obviously think it, just like everyone else!” The prince’s voice got louder again, and he slammed his cane hard on the dusty ground.

Cedric felt frustration and guilt mix in his stomach. He wanted to scream louder than the brat, tell him to shut up and stop overthinking everything, ask him what did he even care if a stupid guard like Cedric didn’t think highly of him, demand that he accept no one would like him if he acted like a child and threw tantrums all the time. But that whole conversation was his own fault, Cedric was the one who had ruined the first and only day the prince had been in a good mood, and he couldn’t ignore that. (It was his sense of duty, or maybe that dull feeling of swelling in his chest every time the prince got angry at him.)

“Your Highness, that’s not true,” he finally managed, keeping his voice low and calm. “It was wrong of me to use those words and I apologise. I assure you they didn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t want you to apologise,” the prince hissed out of his thin lips. “I want you to believe that I can walk, ride a horse, fight, and do anything else you can do!”

Cedric was about to say he had never believed otherwise, but that would have been a lie. He hesitated, turning words over in his mind as he stared at Prince Sullivan’s crossed face, briefly wondering just how deep those frown lines were under the blindfold, on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Then, suddenly, the prince reached for Cedric’s sword, letting his own cane fall.

Cedric had quick reflexes, and his hand was readily on the hilt of the weapon. However, Prince Sullivan’s was on it too, under Cedric’s, and when their hands touched, the prince unsheathed the blade with all the strength he could master, all the anger bottled up in his small, lean body. Cedric loosened the grip to keep from hurting the lad, and took a couple of steps back, to avoid hurting himself. 

The expression on his face was probably as bewildered as those of the people passing by, slowing down, stopping to have a look, some of them ultimately staying in a corner to watch, as if it was some kind of performance.

“I’ll show you,” the prince said, putting himself in guard. His arms low, the stolen blade kept upright, slightly tilted forward: it didn’t seem as if it was the first time he had drawn a sword. (Of course, it wasn’t something he habitually did, and Cedric didn’t need to see the tip of the sword shake slightly to know it.)

“Find a sword and let’s fight,” the prince commanded.

“Your Highness, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Cedric attempted, as he looked around for something to defend himself with. In response, prince Sullivan swung the sword. His movements might have been unskilled, but Cedric was unarmed, and he stepped back right on time to avoid the edge of the blade aimed at his arm.

“Do it,” the prince insisted, returning to his guarding position. His white teeth sank deeply into his lips, and he took slow, controlled breaths. It didn’t seem like he was going to change his mind anytime soon.

Cedric looked at the small crowd that had gathered around them, searching for a weapon to borrow. He didn’t need to find it, as one was thrust into his hands by a tall, amused looking fellow, smelling like iron and rust, who then retreated back into the crowd.

Cedric shrugged. (His distaste for being the center of attention apparently wasn’t  shared by the brat, and there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it.)

He held the sword firmly in hand, then assumed a low guard, ready to parry the prince’s hits. “As you wish,” he murmured.

The prince didn’t need to hear it twice, and promptly started swinging the sword with the furthest thing from technique Cedric could imagine from someone talking big like that. The blows were irregular and disorganized, and the thrusts clumsy, but the aim was surprisingly on point. Cedric parried each hit, sword clanking against sword, blades crossing in the middle, the vibration from one of the frenzied blows travelling down his wrists. His mind wasn’t particularly focused on the prince’s efforts at hitting him, and was instead concentrating on finding the right opening to stop that whole ridiculous scene.

“You’re not taking me seriously, Cedric,” protested the brat, stepping back to catch his breath. “Attack. I told you I can fight!”

“Your Highness, please, you’re going to get hurt.”

Prince’s Sullivan’s face was once again deformed by anger, and he threw himself forward with a powerful blow aimed at Cedric’s head. Cedric parried it, not without being surprised by the sheer energy the brat had put into the blow.

“I asked you to do something!” yelled the prince, words accompanied by another blow, this time aimed at Cedric’s side. The swords clashed in a shower of sparks. “Do I have to order you?” continued the brat, stepping back to charge a thrust. “Will you not respect me unless I threaten to send you away?”

Cedic deflected the sword’s lunge, and his parry left the prince exposed for a moment, long enough that Cedric could have delivered a swift and effective riposte. (He had studied the brat’s movements enough, and was sure he could predict his patterns accurately enough to make sure he wouldn’t be hurt.) 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to.

“I can’t hurt you,” Cedric admitted, and his tone wasn’t very far from begging.

“I don’t care. I’ll fight you until you take me seriously!”

The prince’s breath was laboured, and his dishevelled hair was starting to stick to the sides of his face, sweat glistening on the rare portions of naked skin. He was tired, and his blows had started to get less and less vigorous, but there was no sign in his stance that he would give up any time soon, the stubborn brat.

Cedric gritted his teeth as he parried another thrust, this time aimed to his chest. With a sharp, controlled blow to the weak of the prince’s blade, Cedric knocked the sword out of the brat’s hands. He thrust his weapon forward, purposefully missing the prince's neck by little more than one hand. A lock of the brat’s hair was caught on the edge, during the movement, and fell slowly to the ground. Together with it, a long strip of laced blue silk landed on the dirt.

Cedric looked up again almost immediately, but he only saw it for the briefest moment: the prince’s face, criss-crossed with scars, dark red signs cutting across his eyes, his eyebrows, lining his forehead, stretching his nose into an irregular shape.

Then, the lad put his face in his hands and run away.


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s me, Your Highness.”

Cedric knocked on the door of the prince’s bedroom. A familiar act in itself, but in much less familiar circumstances that time.

Cedric was holding Prince Sullivan’s cane and the strip of silk he used as a blindfold in his hand, and a confused, swollen feeling of sorrow in his heart. Right before the prince had left, right before he had run back inside stumbling and shoving people away, the expression on his disfigured face had hit Cedric better than any sword blow the prince had aimed at him.

Of course, Cedric expected not to be received; he knew the prince was probably angry at him, he knew that the last one might have been one misstep too many. He knew, but he wouldn’t stop knocking. He was still on duty, after all, and it was not like he had something else to do.

(Also, if the prince wanted to discharge him, he had better do it himself.)

“Leave me alone.” The yell came from the other side of the door after minutes of relentless tapping, knocking, pounding, and thumping. (And it was good that it did, because Cedric knew he could go on the whole day.)

“I brought the blindfold,” he told the door handle. “And your cane.”

Silence followed. Cedric gave it what he deemed to be a reasonable amount of time before starting to hit the door again, using his hands, his elbows, and the cane.

“You are annoying!” (Cedric would have thought the choice of words wasn’t accidental, but he wasn’t a narcissist.) “Be quiet!”

“Can I come in?” insisted Cedric, unrelenting.

He was a closed fist away from knocking again when the prince talked. “I don’t want to hear you,” he said.

“I won’t make a sound.”

There was silence again on the other side of the door, but Cedric was more patient this time. His face pressed against the carved wood of the door, he heard the key turn in its hole, unlocking with a click, followed by the pitter-patter of naked feet on the hard floor.

He opened the door slightly, just enough to walk inside.

The room was, of course, plunged into dimness. The curtains were drawn, blocking the light from outside, except from a single sunbeam that split the darkness in two and travelled across the room, right next to the prince’s bed. On it, the lad rested, buried under a mountain of sheets, laying on his stomach, face sunk into one of those soft pillows.

“Sycophantic prick,” he muttered into the feather-soft cushion.

As promised, Cedric didn’t talk. He offered no reply to that expression (he still had no idea whether it was meant as an insult or not). He put the cane back in its place, next to the door, left the blindfold on the bedside table, pulled up the closest chair, sat on it, and waited. 

It wasn’t much different from waiting outside every morning for the prince to get ready, or for him to decide his mood was good enough to allow Cedric inside. The only difference was that he usually didn’t feel sad. (Sadness was a cruel feeling Cedric never learned to understand, only to avoid.)

Prince Sullivan’s back slightly rose and then fell, along with his irregular, hiccupping breath. His hair was still as messy as when he was fighting, braid half undone. His hand gripped the pillow he was stuffing his face into as if holding to dear life. The lack of his usual air of superiority was almost upsetting.

If Prince Sullivan was crying, hiding his face like that, Cedric preferred not to know. (He didn’t know how to handle tears, Cedric, not even his own.) He didn’t ask, and of course the brat didn’t tell.

The single ray of light filtering through the curtains had moved slightly, almost touching the bed, when the silent stillness in the room was interrupted.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” muttered the prince all of a sudden, voice muffled by the pillow.

Cedric was silent for a moment, as the image of the prince’s face, which he had indeed seen, flashed in front of his eyes. His gaze grazed the lean figure of the young man in front of him, who hadn’t been graced by remarkable height or strength, by talent or a good personality, nor by good luck. In fact, Prince Sullivan had been graced by nothing else but the circumstances of his birth, while his good looks and even his sight had been taken from him.

Cedric decided, right then, that he wasn’t about to let anything else be taken from the prince.

Finally, he sighed, gathered words on the tip of his tongue, selecting them with the greatest attention. “Yes, I did see your scar,” he murmured, simply.

The prince pushed his face deeper into the feather stuffing. “Did anyone else?”

“No,” lied Cedric. (It was impossible for people not to have seen: they had all been staring at them. That one was on Prince Sullivan for causing a scene, but he didn’t need to know it, and Cedric didn’t want to be the one to tell him.)

“How can you be sure?”

Prince Sullivan’s face peeked out of its hiding place, however slightly. His hair covered the unusually exposed, naked side of his face, hiding it from sight.

“It was just a moment,” he told the prince. “I don’t think anyone else was looking at you.”

“You  _ think _ . So you’re not sure.”

Cedric’s eyes had gotten used to the dim light in the room, so when the prince actually turned towards him, letting go of the pillow, he could see almost as well as back outside.

That time, however, he felt no surprise upon seeing the prince’s face; on the contrary, Cedric’s eyes took in the lad’s appearance with urgency, in light of the awareness that it was a sight he might as well never be allowed again.

He tried to learn the unusual lines of those eyebrows, interrupted by three dark-red, ridged marks, that continued on the forehead, splitting in many other smaller discolored signs. He scanned the taut skin of the left side of the prince’s face, cheek, eyelid, and the side of the nose all melted into lumpy tissue. He followed the unnaturally curved bridge of the lad’s little nose, that must have originally looked very much like his mother’s. Finally, Cedric observed the unpaired closed eyelid on the right side of the prince’s face, cut across by the pitted mark of a blade.

Cedric took a deep breath, forcing his gaze away from the prince’s face. “What if someone else saw it, Your Highness?”

Prince Sullivan hid his face behind a thick curtain of hair, as if belatedly realising the guard’s intense gaze from just seconds before. “I don’t want anyone to see it,” he murmured. “It’s horrible.”

Maybe it was stupid of Cedric to need to have it spelled out to realise it, that this was the reason the prince hid his face so stubbornly. It never occurred to him that one could be less than proud of his own scars. (As Krista would say, Cerdic never was empathetically gifted.)

“You’re wrong,” he maintained, with all his confidence. (This time, it was no lie.)

“What do you mean?” Prince Sullivan sat up suddenly, and his sad frown shuddered yet again with anger. “You want to say this isn’t ugly?” His fingertips brushed against the ridges of his own scars, hiding part of his disgusted expression.

“It’s not horrible,” Cedric stated. (To find himself in the position to comfort someone was surprising in and of itself; to feel at ease doing it was a more than noteworthy event.) “It’s not ugly, either,” he continued, gripping the prince’s wrists just long enough to part fingertips from face. “Each scar is an honour, Your Highness. I have quite a collection of them myself.”

Prince Sullivan tilted his head, slightly. Both his scarred eyebrows raised, just a bit. “You do?” he asked. (He sounded surprised, and it took embarrassingly long for Cedric to realise that of course the lad wouldn’t know; he hadn’t  _ seen _ even the ones on his face.)

Cedric’s grip closed around the prince’s wrists yet again (remarkably, the lad didn’t shy away), then Cedric guided them towards his own face.

“There’s one right here on my cheek,” he explained, as he felt the soft fingertips travel along his smile, explore the crooked line of his nose, then brush against the irregular mark that ran from the right side of Cedric’s mouth up to the side of his eye. “You feel it?” Cedric asked.

The prince nodded. His fingers kept roaming Cedric’s face, getting to know the little crater on his forehead, the irregular, jagged line blemishing the side of his neck, even the missing piece of his left ear. Slowly, they returned to the starting point. (Cedric sat still the whole time, barely even allowing himself to breathe when he realised that was, as a matter of fact, the first time the prince actually got to  _ see _ him.)

Prince Sullivan retracted his fingers, abruptly. “That must have been painful,” he commented, placing his hands in his lap, his face flushing red. (Despite that, his voice was slowly gaining back its usual firmness.)

“I didn’t get them all together,” explained Cedric, a little amused smile drawing itself on his lips. “They’re all from different points in time. This one, for example.” Cedric took the prince’s hand, guiding it to his face again. Under his direction, Prince Sullivan’s fingers brushed against the pitted scar on his forehead. “This is from that one time I tried to steal some wine from a tavern. The owner sent a jar flying towards me, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t have a good aim.”

Prince Sullivan smiled, his face finally softening.

His hand’s delicate touch, exploring Cedric’s face once more, gingerly touched the scar on his cheek. “What about this one?” he asked.

Cedric shifted in his seat, getting comfortable in it. The sides of his smirk brushed against the prince’s fingertips.

“Do you want to hear a good story?”

:♔:♘:♔:

That whole matter of Prince Sullivan being ashamed of his own scars had been hard to understand for Cedric, at least at first.

He had seen so many scars on his fellow soldiers, nastiness ranging from negligible to unbelievable (some truly left him wondering how they were even still alive), missing fingers, eyes, teeth, ears, or whole limbs. He had never, however, met a person that was so keen on hiding any of those old injuries as Prince Sullivan was. Cedric always thought it was normal to regard the signs of violence on one’s body as a proof one survived, rather than a burden to bear, a shameful mark to hide: the prince’s embarrassment seemed inexplicable. (At first, he put that down to the brat’s generally childish attitude.)

The signs Prince Sullivan carried, jealously shielded behind silk and lace, told a story of pain and horror Cedric couldn’t begin to imagine. He assumed everyone would see them as a proof of courage, and that was what he tried to convince the prince of that evening, sitting next to his bed and reeling off memories about his own mishaps (those that left a more or less evident mark on his skin, so that he could never forget them) and then other people’s, too.

He had never seen the prince more relaxed, nor more honestly involved in a conversation, and Cedric looked forward to seeing him like that again. (He had to admit, comforting people was a more satisfying feeling than he could have imagined, but still he hoped he didn’t have to do it again.)

However, starting from the following morning, a lot of Cedric’s assumptions turned out to be wrong.

The first one to disprove his ideas was Prince Sullivan himself. Cedric didn’t expect him to change all of a sudden, or to start showing off his scars as a badge of honour just because of the conversation they had; but Cedric didn’t expect everything to stay the same, either, including the brat’s keen fondness of privacy. That day, too, Cedric had to wait for the prince to get ready (or, more likely, for his daily amount of sulking alone to be done) until lunchtime. In fact, the day after they fought together, the day after Prince Sullivan showed Cedric his scarred face, the day after Cedric shared with him so many stories about himself, the prince seemed to be exactly the same as always. 

Cedric, however, couldn’t say he really minded. (The idea the prince would change and that he would have to learn how to handle him anew wasn’t exactly a rosy prospect.)

The second assumption that turned out to be wrong was that everyone who had seen them fighting that evening would feel the same as he did about Prince Sullivan’s ‘secret’.

As a practical matter, nothing really changed after all. But, day after day, Cedric felt some sort of tension in the air, like a background buzzing sound he could never get rid of. It was there when servants brought food to the prince’s chamber, it was there every time Cedric managed to convince the brat to take a walk outside in the courtyard. It was there during the riding lessons he started giving to the prince, and when they borrowed two horses to go in the Royal Woods nearby. It was there all the time, really, but Cedric paid it no mind. He gave it no importance.

That was, until something happened (about two fortnights later) that Cedric noticed, that he understood. And suddenly, that background sound had a meaning.

He was teaching the prince how to use a sword. (Since the brat was so eager to fight, might as well teach him how to not get hurt. That  _ was _ Cedric’s duty after all.)

It wasn’t like they were having actual fencing lessons. Cedric only described the main guards and attacks, explained how to use them, corrected his stances. When Prince Sullivan had learned and practiced enough of them alone, they asked for a training sword so that no one would get hurt. (The lad attacked following his hearing, and a wooden target wouldn’t make any sound, so it made sense for Cedric to act as a target himself. It also seemed wise not to rely too much on the brat’s restraint and his control of the weapon, and use a dull one instead.)

The servant who brought the practice sword called Cedric aside when he arrived, and the guard left the prince to practice thrusting techniques, wondering how difficult could it be to find a training sword. Turned out he was thinking ill of the young man, who had actually brought the sword they had requested, and handed it to him right away.

However, he didn’t leave.

“Are you really sure that’s a good idea, sir?” asked the man, whispering with a confidential tone. (As if the two of them had any reason to be in confidence at all.)

Cedric shoot a glance at the prince, who was still training, not too far from them. He was tilting the sword downwards a bit too much in that last thrust, but he seemed to be doing well otherwise.

“The prince needs to learn to protect himself,” Cedric stated, simply, observing the training sword more closely, his finger running over the dull edge.

“Well, better be careful,” commented the manservant again. (With an opinion that didn’t help nor interest anyone.) “After all, if he gets hurt, he might get even uglier.”

Cedric’s eyes jolted up towards the man’s face — red curls framing a sunburned face and a hooked nose, eyes two thin brown cracks at its side. That was when it hit him, that the murmurs when they passed, those intense looks, the people who stared and pointed at the prince when they walked by: those weren’t normal, they weren’t simply because the brat was part of the royal family, because he was the prince, because he rarely went out. It was because of the scar he had hidden so well until Cedric came along. 

Because, of course, Sullivan was the Crown Prince of Euphea, and he wasn’t held to the same standards as a normal soldier, or even as a noble. His scar wasn’t handsome. It was nasty, unsightly, disfiguring. It didn’t suit a prince. So, gossip circulated about his appearance now, and everyone was talking about the royal monster. (Cedric wondered if Prince Sullivan had realised.)

Together with that awareness, another of Cedric’s assumptions fell. It was the expectation that nothing that had happened would affect him, his behaviour. Of course, he was wrong about that, too. (It said a lot about how far he had to come when it came to exercising his empathy, when he couldn’t even predict his own reactions.)

He knew when that manservant spoke like that, as if it was funny, right to Cedric’s face, that he couldn’t just ignore, inwardly scoff, or give a witty reply and move on, as he had done with the old woman, as he had done before. Oh, no, Cedric couldn’t let it go so easily. He couldn’t forgive.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he replied, making no mystery of the belligerence in his voice.

The servant, of course, was intimidated, maybe even frightened. (As he should have been, the heap of bones and flesh of a lad.) He stepped back, the mocking smile wiped off his face in the blink of an eye, and slightly raised his hands, maybe in a conciliating gesture, maybe in preparation to defend himself (maybe both). Obviously, he understood that Cedric could have knocked him out with a punch. And he would have, oh, Cedric would have given him a disfiguring scar to show around, too.

But Prince Sullivan called.

“Cedric! Stop conversing, and start taking my training seriously,” he yelled. And Cedric turned around without a word, and went back to the prince.

He never asked, Cedric. But he could see it in the prince’s trembling hold on the sword, on his red-bitten lips, he could see that the lad knew. (Maybe better than Cedric did.)

:♔:♘:♔:

An eternity seemed to have passed since Cedric volunteered to become the prince’s Escort Guard. The trees had just started blossoming, back then, and now spring was coming to an end.

Krista had listened to him go on about that job, and about the prince, most nights of that season. She listened, offered her usual words of advice, mocked him sometimes (he always deserved it), but she never actually made fun of him. Krista wasn’t the type: she didn’t humiliate people (that didn’t deserve it), she didn’t pull practical jokes.

So, when Krista confessed she had investigated the prince’s accident, too, and that she had found the one reliable person willing to talk, Cedric didn’t doubt it for a moment. He accepted the invitation and agreed upon a meeting place and hour, mostly out of gratitude, in the spur of the moment.

Later on, he felt like he was breaking some sort of unspoken promise, that he was betraying the prince’s trust. It wasn’t even about disobeying his orders (it wouldn’t have been the first time) but, simply, about doing things behind his back. It was never a big deal before.

But it was too late to change his mind, and Cedric was, admittedly, too curious. He went to the designated place (a tavern in the area of the city that was furthest away from the castle). He was perfectly on time, maybe even early, but the old man was already there, and, by the looks of it, at least on his second pint.

So Cedric sat down, at the table of the man with the thick, bristly grey beard drenched with beer. Useless platitudes were exchanged while the actual reason for their conversation just loomed behind them. His name was Clay.

“You here because of that prince, aren’t you?” Clay was quick to move on to the true topic of their conversation (Cedric didn’t even have to encourage him as he expected — his bag of golden coins was safe, for now).

“Yes,” confirmed Cedric. “I’m his Escort Guard.”

“Oh, I was like you once. I had been his Escort Guard since the kid was a little runt all wrapped up in a cloth!” Clay started rambling, right away. “He’s still the same ungrateful brat, I hear.”

Cedric felt the expression on his lips stiffen, but he managed to force a smile, anyway. “He can act a bit spoiled, yes,” he admitted, carefully, to encourage the old man to talk.

“A bit? That’s an understatement, my friend! The guy keeps his hair long just because no one is worthy of touching him to cut it, can you imagine that?” 

Cedric nodded, then gulped down a long sip of beer (which was watered and tasted like crap anyway). He hoped the man would go on without being prompted, because the words that came to him right then weren't exactly nice.

“I tell you, after the accident that damn kid didn’t want anyone else around.” Clay imitated him, and gulped down what was left of the beer. He only needed a gesture of his hand to get the tavern owner to bring him another. “I hadn’t signed up to change the kid’s clothes, to clean his bandages or to bathe the little fella. And he kept screaming and crying and fighting me all the time!”

Cedric thought he would have paid to see the scene, if nothing else to see the old man struggling with those responsibilities. But he was surprised to hear that Prince Sullivan once trusted someone to do those things for him. (Of course, it was only natural, he was just a child. It was simply odd to think about.)

“He was that attached to you?” he asked, maybe even a bit incredulous.

“I don’t know about that.” Clay shrugged. “That whole idiocy went on for no more than a fortnight. Then he got me laid off for saying his scar was ugly. But I’ll tell you, if he hadn’t, I’d have quit myself.”

Cedric clenched his fists and he was so close to throwing a punch and let it end there, without gaining any useful information (except that the guy was an asshole). Really close. It was only his own curiosity that saved the old man’s snout. (If he hadn’t already thought it was a flaw of his, this would have been the moment he realised.)

“You get me, don’t you?” continued Clay. “Bet you’d quit too, if you could.”

“I volunteered, actually,” Cedric replied, staring firmly into the other’s eyes.

“You must be mad!” Clay laughed as if he had just heard a great joke, than gulped down more beer from the pint that was just placed in front of him.

“Maybe.” Cedric sighed, then drank a bit, too. “You haven’t told me what happened.”

The old man was still laughing over some private joke of his. (That, or  _ he _ was the mad one.) “What?” he asked, before taking another sip.

“The accident,” insisted Cedric. “What happened to the prince, back then?”

“Oh!” At that point, Clay seemed to have finally remembered that their conversation was not a friendly meet-up to complain about Prince Sullivan, because his face went serious again. His eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” he said, staring at his beer. “We swore it. It would be treason.”

Cedric might have suddenly stood up from the chair. 

“Then what did you call me here for?" He didn’t realise, Cedric — not that his whisper wasn’t really much of a whisper, not that he was standing, not that the chair had scraped loudly against the wooden floor, not even that the gazes of the other four people in the room were on him, all of a sudden. He did, however, notice the bewildered look Clay aimed at him.

“Sit down, impulsive idiot,” whispered Clay, and Cedric slowly carried out the instruction. 

“For a price, I’ll talk,” Clay explained, casually.

(Maybe that bag of coins wasn’t so safe after all.)

:♔:♘:♔:

Cedric desperately tried not to think about what he had learned that day. (Which, of course, meant he thought about it all the time.) 

Clay’s account of what had happened hadn’t been too detailed: it was about a visit to Tyritium, back when King Henry still travelled himself, and even brought his family along. (Now he was old and relied on his much younger half-brother for all diplomatic missions.) During the stay, a group of servants had managed to kidnap the young prince (under that damned Clay’s nose, on top of it). They had asked for no ransom, had no terms to meet; in fact, the small group had managed to keep their existence and the prince’s position an absolute secret for days, while desperate searches were going on all over Tyritium (whose king was doing all he could to avoid a diplomatic incident).

King Henry’s brother, Prince Cyrus, had been the hero (Clay seemed to have the greatest admiration for him). He had both saved the prince from his abductors and prevented a war between the two countries. And it was because of  Tyritium’s role in it that Prince Cyrus had insisted that they keep the thing under wraps — to avoid spurring antagonism between the two peoples.

Cedric didn’t care about diplomacy, about secrets, heroes or villains. (It was an old story, and almost fifteen years had passed: all those things couldn’t possibly matter anymore, after all.) Of the whole story, Cedric only cared about the circumstances of the little prince, and once he knew them, he wished he could forget.

Each time he saw the prince sit silently, keeping to himself, Cedric couldn’t help but wonder if he was remembering those days. He wondered what was the last thing the lad had seen, and whether that image was burned in his mind forever. He asked himself many more questions than he had before, about the prince, and about his own responsibilities. He thought about it, but never talked about it.

Even Krista commented on his changes. “You used to talk about the prince all the time, but since that evening you’ve barely even mentioned him. What happened?” she had asked, one evening. Cedric refused to answer, and she didn’t push him. However, she didn’t let the matter go without a warning. “Ignoring your feelings won’t make them disappear, Ced,” she said simply.

(Cedric had no idea what she was talking about.)

On the other hand, if the brat had noticed a change in Cedric, he didn’t say anything about it. And yet, Cedric knew his silences had gotten longer and his words more guarded, that he kept overthinking every sentence and trying to satisfy each of the brat’s requests. (If it wasn’t absurd, Cedric would have thought he was eager to please the young prince.)

Prince Sullivan seemed even more at ease than ever with Cedric around, and that stiff posture he had kept all the time at the beginning had slowly faded away. The prince wasn’t exactly friendly (Cedric doubted the lad was physically capable of that), but he was used to Cedric, and appreciated his company as long as his boundaries were kept.

Therefore, Cedric was sure that he only needed time to get used to all that he knew, and he’d stop obsessing about it. That there was no risk that the prince would know about Cedric  going behind his back. That everything would be as usual.

So, when the prince suddenly called for him outside of his working hours, Cedric got a bit worried. (He was heading back to the barracks when one of the night guards brought him the message, and the sudden timing of it was uncommon.)

Of course, Cedric answered the call, and it was a matter of minutes before he got to the prince’s rooms, at the top of the left flight of stairs, in the west wing of the Palace. He was told to go straight inside, and that was what he did.

Inside, Prince Sullivan was pacing the room.

Wet hair fell past his naked shoulders, and he was wearing nothing but linen braies and a thin shirt. Only when Cedric closed the door behind himself and greeted him did the prince stop.

Cedric walked slowly, his mind producing an astonishing number of scenarios and phrases with which the prince might discharge him. (He would have liked to hope for the better option, but his imagination got to conjure up no such thing before the prince spoke.)

“Have you heard we’re leaving tomorrow?” he asked. He wasn’t wearing his blindfold, and Cedric could see how the frown extended to his whole face  — that small crease between his eyebrows was usually hidden.

“I was told, yes.” Cedric nodded. “A diplomatic visit to Tyritium.”

The prince sighed, his chest going up and down, the low neckline of his shirt revealing some old scars. (They were all over his body, Cedric noticed, some even on his legs, though not as serious or extensive as the ones to his face. Prince Sullivan didn’t seem worried about him seeing them.)

“My uncle is the one who usually goes,” he explained.

The shirt the prince was wearing was thin, wet in places (probably from his hair), and it clung to his skin here and there. (It was distractingly unusual to see him like that, and Cedric could only wonder what kind of thing would change the prince’s strict priorities so distinctly.) Cedric’s eyes were following the curves and lines he could have only imagined to be hidden under the prince’s clothes before; he couldn’t really say he had any idea where that conversation was going. However, it didn’t seem it was his fault if the prince was upset.

“I’m sure Your Highness will do well,” he attempted, making one step back and trying to focus his attention somewhere else. (Curiosity was bad enough. That was at least one step beyond curiosity. He’d had too much beer for all that.) 

“It doesn’t matter. My parents just want me out of their way.”

“But this is important experience for when you’ll become king, right?”

Cedric dared look towards Prince Sullivan only when it was clear no answer was coming. He was standing next to the open window, breathing slowly, his skin (as flawed with marks as it looked pale and delicate) kissed by the moonlight.

(He had always been so good at avoiding thoughts, and yet when it came to the prince, they seemed to always come back, relentlessly.)

Cedric made one step towards him — he just wanted to ask permission to leave and go chase away unwanted thoughts back in the barracks — but didn’t get to make more, because the prince’s voice interrupted him.

“Cedric, can you stay here tonight?” he asked, and his voice, thin as it was, sounded incredibly sad. Cedric almost instinctively said yes.

(No, the right answer was no, not when his heart beat as fast as it did at the mere thought of standing there to watch him sleep.)

“I mean no disrespect, Your Highness,” Cedric murmured, and the prince’s clenched jaw was really close to making him change his mind, “but I don’t think I would be of much use standing guard. I’m tired.”

“I don’t mean standing guard outside,” insisted the prince, leaving the window to get closer to him. (Nothing about Prince Sullivan ever looked threatening, and yet Cedric was suddenly alarmed.) “I mean stay here, in the room.”

The Prince stopped but one step away. “Sleep here,” he finished. The sadness hadn’t left his voice yet.

“Is that an order, Your Highness?” (Even at that distance he could smell the prince’s wet hair, its scent probably the same his baths must have had.)

The prince lowered his head, shook it. His teeth bit his lips so furiously Cedric expected them to draw blood. He turned towards his bed, and Cedric felt his own heart sink so low it was if the earth had swallowed it. (Good riddance.)

“Do I have to make it an order?”

Cedric sighed. 

“I’ll stay,” he surrendered.


	4. Chapter 4

The carriage rattled swiftly along the cobbled street outside Euphea’s capital, driving towards the setting sun in the distance. Occupying its satin-padded interiors was Prince Sullivan, clothes as elegant as ever, and even wearing a different blindfold to match them (white and gold totally suited him). Cedric, sitting in front of the prince, felt unusually constricted in the armour, oppressed by that cramped space. The idea of spending ten more hours in a small space like that already made him exhausted.

Cedric could still feel the warmth of the summer sun, and watched as its colours painted the view outside the window of the carriage. Its slight bouncing movement, the rhythmic clopping of the trotting horses, the soft padding of the seats: it would have been nice to just fall asleep and spend those idle hours like that. (Especially considering how little he had slept, the day before.) But Cedric couldn’t really fall asleep while on duty, could he?

He turned his gaze inside the carriage, where Prince Sullivan, in the middle of what looked like one of his usual sulking silences, was fidgeting with a small music box. (It must have been frustrating, not being able to yell at Cedric to get out.)

The brat opened and closed the box, letting no more than a fragmented note of the melody escape its mechanism. The finely decorated little thing, all blue and golden like the prince’s room, was a present from the King and Queen. If the brat would only let it sit open for a moment, it would play a slow, melancholic melody.

Cedric imagined that it was easy to carry around, but it wasn’t exactly what he would have called the best possible birthday present. On the spot, he could think of at least ten things that would have been more useful.

However, that tiring, unbearably long trip surely wasn’t any better in terms of birthday celebrations.

If he had to be honest, Cedric had expected to spend that day in a completely different way. Twenty years before then, he remembered, his birth-town had been in the middle of a huge celebration, which was rare. (A delightful, pretty little town, it was — which was a kind way to say it was so boring that living there should have been considered torture.) They had been honoring the unexpected arrival of an heir, more than twenty years after King Henry and Queen Adena’s marriage. In other words, Prince Sullivan’s birth had been regarded as nothing short of a miracle.

Cedric had expected there to be at least a small social gathering for the brat’s twenty years. Not necessarily a ball, or something boring like that (although it would have been fun to see all the nobles and the royal family all spiffed up and overdressed), but maybe a banquet would have been nice. After such occasions, the castle’s kitchen was filled with leftover food and wine, and Krista, who knew all the right people, always made sure they got something. And maybe, that time, he could even have hoped to get the brat to share some food.

His expectations were, of course, disappointed. There he was, instead, in that cramped carriage, on no more than four hours of sleep, with an empty stomach, a sulking brat, and not even a wretched drop of wine. (Not to mention the unwanted thoughts he had been busy chasing away since the day before, stubbornly refusing to follow Krista’s unsought advice.)

That he, of all people, should resort to conversation to make time pass was a telling sign of the seriousness of the situation.

“You deserved a banquet,” he started, simply voicing his thoughts.

Prince Sullivan shifted in his place, slightly. He sighed, but offered no response except for the repeating mutilated notes coming from the music box.

“You know, for your birthday, and for the beginning of your diplomatic career,” insisted Cedric, trying to get anything even remotely resembling a word out of the brat’s mouth.

After all, it was a matter of life and death: Cedric wasn’t sure it was possible to survive a ten-hour trip in the company of a sulking Prince Sullivan. Possible death scenarios included being kicked out of the moving carriage, stabbed to death with his own sword, and a fatal form of headache brought on by the continuous alternating of chopped-off notes and the wooden box clicking shut.

“I don’t like celebrations,” the prince commented. (Of course he didn’t.) “Nor long travels.”

“It will seem shorter if you try to sleep, Your Highness,” Cedric suggested. He got the hint, that the Prince didn’t seem to want to talk, so he went back to staring outside the window in the vain hopes of seeing something, anything, even remotely more interesting than trees.

It was at least thirty hours (so, probably no more than three actual minutes) before the sounds from the brat fidgeting with the music box ceased, and he heard the thin rustle of smooth fibres against one another. Contrary to what he had imagined before turning, however, the prince wasn’t lying down: he had simply put the music box away and now sat, hands in his lap, face turned to the floor.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” he muttered. 

And Cedric wouldn’t have thought it was anything more than a tantrum, if the prince’s tone hadn’t been so anguished (instead of whiny as usual). As a consequence, Cedric straightened in his seat, a somehow familiar urgency filling his lungs like water, drowning him — it was almost embarrassing how, in the blink of an eye, the prince had gained his undivided attention.

“Why is that?” he asked.

The prince sighed, hesitated. He took the tip of his braid between his fingers, and played with it as he seemed to be chewing his tongue. It was unusual to see him like that and, despite himself, Cedric was more than a bit worried. Maybe a trip that long, all of a sudden, hadn’t been a good idea. The prince had been strange since the previous day, after all.

Prince Sullivan’s right hand crossed the distance between their legs, and his slim fingers rested on Cedric’s knee. The other hand followed right behind. Cedric didn’t dare move, confused by that sudden desire for contact.

“Do you remember the story of the princess that could never leave her castle?" the prince asked, hands following the edges of the leg piece of Cedric’s armour. He sounded very serious, the frown on his lips more sad than it was usually impudent.

"The one you had me read to you that night?" Cedric asked, more to show that he remembered than to ask for confirmation. (With all the effort he had put into reading that single page, Cedric couldn’t really forget even if he wanted to.)

Prince Sullivan nodded, his lips tightening in a straight line. (He almost looked as if he was in pain.) Then, he retreated his hands, leaning against the back of his seat. "This is the first time I’ve left the city grounds since the accident, you know?” he confessed. A sad smile curved his lips upwards. “Who knows, maybe I’m cursed too."

Cedric thought that spending fifteen years pretty much alone inside a cold, stupid castle sounded much worse than being cursed, whatever the curse might be. He didn’t voice the thought, however.

"There’s no such thing as curses, Your Highness," he said instead.

“Easy for you to say.”

Cedric searched for his best words (he had this way of trying to be better than he really was, when it came to the lad) but didn’t eventually find any. He imagined the little prince like the tormented girl in the first page of that story, the only part of it he knew, and it made him smile a bit, because Prince Sullivan was nothing like her. (He would stomp his teeth, yell at everyone, maybe even throw some insults here and there. He wouldn’t cry.)

"How did the princess's story end?" he asked.

"A knight fell in love with her and broke the curse, killing the witch." (Cedric should have guessed it.)

"So she didn't die, in the end, and she saw the world, too, did she not?" Cedric observed, because it sounded to him like something hopeful, even positive, to say.

Prince Sullivan didn’t seem to agree.

"Yes, but this is not a fairytale," he muttered.

"No, as a matter of fact, it’s not,” Cedric agreed. “And you're not cursed, either.” His voice vibrated softly inside the padded walls of the carriage. “Nothing will happen to you, Your Highness,” he assured, he  _ promised _ , and his hands almost reached for the prince’s as a way to seal that promise. He decided otherwise, throwing them back in his own lap. “I'm here to make sure of that," he said, instead.

The prince didn’t reply. He didn’t say a word for so long, in fact, that Cedric thought he had fallen asleep. Then, that small hand of his found Cedric’s knee again.

“Cedric,” the prince called, his voice a sleepy whisper that somehow managed to be as compelling as an order. “This seat is uncomfortable. Can I sleep next to you?”

And, of course, Cedric wouldn’t say no. (He probably  _ couldn’t _ .)

One heartbeat later, Prince Sullivan sat next to a stiff, tense Cedric, who was wondering how his metal armour could be any more comfortable than a padded seat. The prince’s head leaned against his chestplate, settling in what was probably the only possible comfortable position. 

In a sudden moment of clarity, Cedric realised the prince was probably — no, certainly — scared. That he himself was, of course, the only familiar thing Prince Sullivan could cling to in that unwanted, unfamiliar situation. A bubble of what he would have probably called pride exploded inside his chest at that thought.

He relaxed, allowing the prince to slide closer. A familiar thing was something he could be, maybe even a role he could live up to.

The lad’s hair had the scent of rosemary and musk, like his room after he took a bath, and his body was warm and light. His breath settled in a slow, peaceful rhythm. Cedric found himself absentmindedly brushing a blond lock away from the prince’s face, and froze when the lad moved, slightly.

“Cedric,” called Prince Sullivan, and his voice was calm, made mellow by his half-asleep state. “Do you think I would make a good king?” he murmured, shifting slightly, maybe in a more comfortable position.

Cedric smiled. Which of course, the prince couldn’t possibly be aware of.

“Of course,” he replied. “You would, and you  _ will _ make a good king, Your Highness.”

:♔:♘:♔:

Cedric wasn’t exactly sleeping. He maybe rested his eyes for a moment. Or possibly dozed off a little, but no more than a couple of minutes.

Prince Sullivan’s sleeping body snuggled warmly by his side, chest rising and falling slowly, his breath a relaxing lullaby, and Cedric could barely see anything outside, now that the sun had long since set behind the horizon, therefore taking away his only pastime. The moon stood out proudly against the dark sky, but its light was still barely enough to make out vague shapes in the distance. All of that surely didn’t help Cedric stay awake, especially not when he hadn't slept well the day before. It lulled him into a sense of security, an unjustified trust.

Of course he would pay the price for it.

It happened in  an instant, his eyes flying open because of a violent shake of the carriage, and the realisation that it was tilting sideways in a way that couldn’t possibly be a bend of the road. It couldn’t have taken longer than that for Cedric’s half-asleep mind to jolt awake and for him to turn to protect the prince, holding the lad’s smaller body as close as possible while the carriage crashed on its side.

Amidst the splinters of woods sent flying by the impact, between ripped satin and broken wheels, Cedric felt the prince hold on to him, hands gripping his shoulders. Then he felt the impact against the ground — dull pain shot down and up his back, through every bone and muscle, emptying his lungs — and the prince wasn’t there anymore.

Cedric stood right away. His back hurt so much, and his open mouth still couldn’t inhale enough air, but he pushed himself up all the same.

Around him was what remained of their carriage, which had collapsed on one side of the road in the middle of a large clearing in the woods. His eyes scanned the area in a hurry, only briefly taking in the frightened horses, neighing in place, trapped by the reins; the absence of the coachman; the shadows of people getting close — there couldn’t have been more than six of them, three closer, three running towards them from the edge of the clearing. 

But Cedric’s eyes only stopped when he saw the prince, thrown three feet away by the impact. He was moving, pushing himself up, as well. So he was fine, of course he was.

Before Cedric knew it, his hand was on the hilt of his sword and he could taste the metallic flavour of the fight that was to come.

Because whoever tried to get to the prince would have to pass through him, first.

The three closest figures threw themselves at him right away, and at first it was all blocking, evading and stepping back. Cedric’s body seemed to move on its own, parrying two blows each time he thought about attacking even once.

It didn’t take long for him to recognise the fighting style. Accurate blows, skilled thrusts, but slower movements: they were the telltale signs of a well-trained sword fighter. These weren’t bandits, and they weren’t after valuables in their luggage. They were after the prince.

Thus, Cedric did what every reasonable person in his position would do: he threw himself at them with all he had.

He slashed his sword with all the fury he could muster — his back didn’t even ache anymore at that point — and he managed to hurt (or maim, or kill, anything as long as they were out of the battle) two surprised attackers before being hit by the last one.

The armour absorbed most of the blow to his chest, but Cedric stumbled back one or two steps and almost lost his balance, and was soon fighting for his breath, too. He leaned forward, trying to stay on his feet, and it was probably nothing but luck that he managed to parry a blow aimed at his right shoulder without falling to the ground.

“Your Highness!” he called, just because he knew he was close enough to him now. At the corner of his eye, he saw Prince Sullivan stumble on his feet, visibly disoriented but very much alive.

“Take a horse and ride back,” he instructed, shouting with all the air in his lungs while he exploited the briefest breach in his opponent’s guard to deliver a blow to his neck. He didn’t even look his way while the man collapsed in a pool of blood.

He glanced in the prince’s direction, instead. Prince Sullivan was moving fairly quickly in the direction of the neighing horses. He could do it, and he would get home, and he would become king, and he would live another sixty springs. He would get out of that whole thing alive, if it was the last thing Cedric ever did.

His next opponents stood in front of him, and Cedric was ready as never before.

But while the first one attacked him — impressively broad and slightly taller than even Cedric, his blows so powerful that even just a couple of them forced him a several steps back — the other two moved past him, in the direction of the prince.

Cedric tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, taking a deep breath. He didn’t let his opponent prepare a new series of attacks, because he acted first. He feinted an attack, extending his arm forward, the point of his blade moving towards the target in a smooth line; right when the man prepared to parry, Cedric’s sword avoided the contact, moving in a small circle under the blade. 

Cedric then aimed his next thrust at the man’s head, and took advantage of the resulting moment of confusion to leap at him and hit him again, this time with the pommel of the sword, until the man let go of his weapon and fell on his knees, face a mask of blood.

Then, Cedric turned in pursuit of the last two attackers.

The prince had just reached one of the horses; his trembling hands brushed the neck of the frightened animal, trying to calm it down. But there wasn’t time, and Cedric heard the prince let out a scream of protest when one of his pursuers grabbed him, wrenching both his wrists behind his back with a victorious grin on his face.

The second chaser, following right behind, stopped and turned, weapon in hand. He became the only thing between Cedric and the prince, who was screaming, kicking like a madman, yelling to let him go. “You won’t have me this time,” he cried out, and Cedric’s heart tightened in his chest.

Cedric attacked first, aiming straight for the head, then directed a thrust to the man’s chest. He charged almost mindlessly, his mind divided between his own battle and the prince’s, and each of his blows was blocked easily by his opponent.

In the meantime, Prince Sullivan tried to wriggle out of the man’s grasp, squirming, yanking his hands away, with desperate, disorganized movements. Then — as Cedric parried a powerful blow, badly, the hit reverberating through his arms — the prince planted his feet firmly on the ground, and threw his head back at the perfect moment, hitting the man right square in the face, so hard he let go, falling to the ground.

Cedric kept fighting, but half of his attention was still directed at the prince, who finally managed to get on that horse and free its reins. But he was hesitating, he was calling out Cedric’s name, instead of just galloping away.

The man the prince had escaped was getting back up, with a bloodied nose but more than able to fight, and there could be others still coming.

“Just go, you goddamn brat!” Cedric yelled, and was rewarded by a blow on the shoulder that he was sure would have cut him in half if it wasn’t for the armour.

At least the prince was heading back home. 

Of course, that only meant Cedric should hurry and catch up with him.

Of the two men left standing, one fell with one well-placed blow to his thigh, desperately trying to stop the resulting bleeding. The other was luckier, because Cedric only disarmed him, before pointing the tip of his blade at his neck to keep him from escaping. Cedric’s hand trembled slightly, the haze of the battle slowly fading away.

“You will tell me who sent you and you will do it right now,” Cedric ordered.

The man, curls dirty, a mixture of mud and blood sticking to his face, smiled a half-toothed smile, green eyes shining with defiance. “Or what?” he challenged.

“Or else-” Cedric grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, then slammed him back on the ground. He sat astride him, pinning him in place, and pushed the edge of the blade against his neck. “I’ll make you eat your eyeballs. I’ll rip out your nails and teeth. I’ll break every bone in your body, slowly. Then, maybe I shall cut your tendons. But I won’t kill you. I’m a merciful man, you see.”

(What scared Cedric the most, even right then, was the awareness that he was actually ready to do all of that. He wouldn’t have hesitated even a second.)

“So? Who sent you? Who do you work for?” Cedric urged, his fists shaking. Whether it was rage, tiredness, or an injury, Cedric neither knew nor cared.

“You would torture a fellow Euphean?” The man smirked, obstinately bold, stretching the skin of his swelling face.

Upon hearing those words, Cedric trembled with anger. “You’re pitiful,” he hissed. “How could you even consider hurting your prince?”

The man laughed. His mouth was as bloody as his face. “My prince? I serve the true heir to the crown, not that good-for-nothing you protect.”

Cedric was about to hit him, hoping to finish the job Prince Sullivan had started and punch his face in, before what the man said properly reached his brain.

He stood up, kicked the man’s face instead (he was pretty sure that took good care of that charming smile of his), and left in a hurry.

The castle might not have been so safe after all.

:♔:♘:♔:

“Cedric?”

The prince's voice, hoarse and faint, reached Cedric’s ears — not unlike a miracle, a medicine for his furiously pumping heart.

Cedric had caught up with the prince's horse earlier than he thought he would. He found the animal trotting, following the cobbled road they had covered in the opposite direction just that afternoon. The prince was unconscious, but clung onto the horse's unsaddled body, arms wrapped around the muscled neck with a sheer, desperate force.

Cedric joined the prince on that same horse, spurring it forward, towards the capital, and the castle. The prince sat between Cedric’s body and the neck of the animal, between his arms, so that, asleep as he was, he wouldn't fall. (So that it would be easy for Cedric to shield him from danger.)

But Cedric was worried. So worried he was unconcerned, almost deaf to his own aching muscles and bones, for there were more urgent matters to attend. He could see Prince Sullivan was hurt, his clothes torn; he could see the blood and the dirt on his skin, and it terrified him, it scared him more than seeing his fellow soldiers fall in battle ever did. 

If the warmth of that body ever faded, Cedric realised, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

So, when Cedric heard Prince Sullivan whisper his name, finally awake, the relief that came felt like breathing for the first time in hours. 

“Your Highness," he whispered back, looking down towards the lad.

The prince was slightly pale, the left side of his scarred face pressed against the neck of the horse (the blindfold had been lost somewhere during the escape), but his lips parted in a relieved sigh upon hearing Cedric’s voice. His hand reached up, tattered sleeve showing a dirty arm with scratches running over and across his old scars. Soft fingertips touched Cedric’s face, brushed against his short beard, traced the edge of his smile (Cedric saw it mirrored on the prince’s face), then cupped his cheek.

A small laugh escaped the prince's throat. “You can even cry?” he commented. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m just glad you are well,” Cedric replied, nonchalantly, as if it was nothing. (It wasn't nothing.)

In truth, Cedric had only noticed the wetness on his own cheeks then, when the prince wiped some of it away. He almost laughed from how absurd it was, and embarrassing, too. He hadn't even cried his own mother's death and there he was, shedding tears of what? Fear? Relief? All because of that brat.

The prince withdrew his hand. He straightened his back, holding onto Cedric’s arm to keep his balance until he got used to the rhythm of the horse's trotting. 

“We’re still heading back to the castle,” Cedric explained. “Luckily, you slept most of the way.”

Ahead of them was no more than another hour of travel. The sunrise brightened the sky of a new day, and the road got more and more familiar as they proceeded. They were going home. (At least Cedric hoped they could both still call it so.)

The prince leaned back against Cedric’s chest with a sigh. “Who were those people, Cedric?” he asked.

Prince Sullivan’s hair brushed against Cedric’s neck. As his mind inevitably went back to the memory of what had happened, Cedric instinctively pulled the prince closer, sinking his nose into the Prince’s blond locks. (Despite it all, their pleasant scent was still there, although mixed with the dry smell of dirt.) 

Cedric wasn't particularly eloquent. He wasn't sure he would ever hold in his mind the right words, the ones he wished to use to talk about what had happened. (They would sound comforting, merciful, and gentle.) He knew the prince would have to settle for less, for straightforward and simple. Bur did that have to happen right away, when Cedric couldn't even study the reaction on his face?

“It’s better if we talk about it later,” he murmured.

“And since when are you the one who decides? I thought  _ I _ was the prince.” Prince Sullivan's voice rose in volume, firm, serious and unyielding, a shudder in the morning calm. “Who were they?” he repeated.

Cedric surrendered, too tired to fight Prince Sullivan, of all people. “Euphean soldiers,” he said. 

Cedric hadn't let down his guard just yet (not since he had dozed off in the carriage, earlier, and regretted it), and the strain of all those sleepless hours, of the battle, of the long ride, was a growing collection of weights piling up on his shoulders. He was clearly aware of the fact that it was all starting to be too much. But still, his alert senses didn't miss the prince’s hands falling by the his sides and his body stiffening in response to those words; he would have fallen from the horse in no time if it hadn't been for Cedric’s arms keeping him on its back.

“Then it really was my uncle,” Prince Sullivan whispered, shaking his head. He, too, seemed to have received yet another weight of his own to carry. 

Cedric knew he couldn't take the prince’s place, but he wished he could have kept the truth from him a while longer, at least until after they were rested and their wounds dressed.

“That was my guess, too,” he confirmed, instead. And then Cedric wondered how the prince could be so convinced and already so resigned, too. “You knew?” he asked, perplexed.

The prince was silent for a long while, and even what Cedric could see of his expression was incomprehensible. Maybe he was finding the words, as Cedric sometimes did, or maybe he was remembering.

“When the incident happened…” he began, suddenly, after what must have been minutes, the lightest tremble in his voice gone in less than two words. “One of the kidnappers kept telling me that my uncle was the proper heir, that I should never have been born, that they were working for him.”

Cedric stopped the horse in its track. “And you’re only saying it  _ now _ ?” He would have roared, but ended up hissing the words through his teeth. 

Of course, the prince didn’t let the accusatory tone escape his attention.

“Uncle Cyrus was the one who saved me!” he argued, defensively. “He said they weren’t acting in his name, that they were just fanatics.”

Cedric sighed. “And you  _ believed _ him?”

“Of course,” Prince Sullivan stated, firmly. “Should I have believed the ones who did this to me, instead?” He gestured at his scars, to further drive the point home.

It was a good argument. Cedric ignored it.

“Okay, then why did you suspect him  _ now _ ?”

Prince Sullivan was silent for a moment. His hand touched the piece of armour covering Cedric’s arm, as if studying the signs of the hits it had taken.

“Because I’m not six anymore, and I haven’t been in a while.”

:♔:♘:♔:

An hour had probably passed. The morning sun was up enough in the sky to start warming the air, and people would soon start crowding the streets.

Upon learning that Prince Cyrus should have been suspect since the start — why did the brat never tell him anything? — Cedric had led the two of them and the horse inside the woods; decisions had to be made before they arrived at the castle.

By ‘decisions’, Cedric meant that they should choose who to trust — who was dependable, honorable enough to deserve the whole truth, and who they should deceive instead. It was clear that Prince Cyrus had trusted people inside the army, and there was no reason why he wouldn’t have people in the Palace, and in the Royal Guard, too. But when Cedric explained that to the prince, the lad just asked him for ‘some time to think’.

He had been sitting silently under a tree since then. It might as well have been any other day, and the prince might as well been shut inside his room, because his stubborn silence wasn’t any different.

Cedric cleaned his sword, took off his armour, washed the dirt and blood off himself in a nearby river, and examined his bruises. But then he got tired of waiting, of killing time, and simply approached the brat, bringing a wet cloth (what used to be one of his own clothes). “Let me dress your wounds at least,” he muttered.

He didn’t know if the complete absence of an answer should have worried him or angered him. He did know it made him sad.

Prince Sullivan wasn’t hurt that badly — mostly scratches, although extensive ones, probably from the fall, and some bruises here and there. (The purple circles around his thin wrists had Cedric clench his jaw, regretting not having kicked the man responsible just a bit harder.)

Cedric cleaned the injured skin gingerly, listening to the prince’s breathing as if it would give him a clue, a way into his head, into those thoughts Prince Sullivan kept turning over in his own mind instead of sharing them. Cedric heard him shiver occasionally, hissing air through gritted teeth, but the brat didn’t complain. (It was probably a good sign.)

But, when the deepest wounds were dressed (one on the prince’s arm and the other on his knee) and the most ruined, tattered portions of his clothes were cut away, Prince Sullivan still hadn’t talked.

Cedric got up with a sigh, trying to convince himself not to say anything rash, and it was only then that he felt that small, firm grip around his own wrist.

The prince pulled him closer, and only once Cedric was yet again sitting on the ground in front of him, did he finally start talking. (He held Cedric's hand in his own, in the meantime, and played nervously with it.)

“My parents want to send me away,” he began. “My uncle probably wants me dead. Most people in the castle, in the whole kingdom probably, wouldn’t mourn my death.” (If there was a point beyond self-pity, Cedric hoped the prince would get there before he felt compelled to talk back. That conversation made him miss the lad’s usual pride, his imperiousness.) 

“Let’s face it, I’m not cut out for being a prince, much less for being a king.”

Cedric was taken aback for a long moment. Because one side of him could understand why the prince thought that; that side of him recognised the unique, difficult circumstance Prince Sullivan was forced to face, and how yet another obstacle could only make him feel discouraged. Especially when that obstacle was someone the prince probably cared about.

However, the other side of him (maybe the one that couldn’t stop grinding his heart until it was reduced to a pulp) couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair that was, how that would mean that even Sullivan’s birthright would be taken away from him, together with everything else. He couldn’t stop thinking about how, all things considered, the prince wasn’t anything worse than bratty. He wasn’t a bad person. And what prince wasn’t spoiled, after all?

When the prince gingerly intertwined their fingers, a sad frown on his face, Cedric squeezed the grip, slightly. His free hand caressed the prince’s cheek (no more than brushing against the scarred tissue of the left side of his face), before he finally voiced a response.

“Your Highness,” he whispered, “you are a wonderful prince, and you will be a great king. Better than your father. Better than your uncle could ever be.” (Someone who plotted to kill his own nephew couldn’t be a good king, after all.)

“You can’t know that.” Prince Sullivan, too, squeezed his grip on Cedric’s hand. He was biting his lips.

“I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, you know?”

The hint of a smile appeared on the prince’s lips, but it was soon gone, as if Cedric had hallucinated it, and the prince’s hands retreated back to his lap.

“It’s better if I just give up my claim to the throne,” he insisted. “That would make everyone happy.”

Cedric took a deep breath. Did he have the right to be angry? Upset? Annoyed? Who was he to decide what Prince Sullivan should do? 

The prince sat once again, pulling his knees to his chest, as if that could really shut out the whole world.

“So Prince Sullivan is giving up?” Cedric challenged. “That would make you happy? Proving them right?”

The prince raised his head. There was no anger in the lines of his face, in the raised eyebrows, in the straight line of his lips, in the rhythm of his breathing, and for a moment Cedric thought he would get no reply. For a moment, he even thought he’d get discharged, there and then, in the middle of the woods.

“Do I have any choice?” muttered the lad. “They want to kill me, and I assure you, Cedric, I very much want to stay alive.” 

Cedric believed him, of course. He, too, very much wanted for the prince to stay alive. But giving up, that wasn’t Cedric’s style. And, as far as he had seen, it wasn’t the prince’s, either.

Cedric sat on his knees. He reached out for the prince’s hand, and guided it to his own face. (He wanted the lad to  _ see _ him, in that moment. It seemed important that he did.)

“Your Highness,” he said, softly, as the prince’s hand brushed over his eyes, massaged the wrinkles between his eyebrows. “Don’t be scared. No one will lay a hand on you, not if I have a say in the matter.” 

The prince’s hand froze for a moment, halfway down the bridge of his nose. Cedric closed his eyes, and didn’t try to stop the words huddling behind his lips. “If you truly want to give up the throne,” he continued, “then I shall support you. But if that’s not what you want, if what’s stopping you is your fear, all I ask is that you trust me.”

Prince Sullivan’s hand hesitated one more moment, then the fingers resumed their path down Cedric’s face, exploring every line of it. When Cedric opened his eyes again, the prince’s lips, half open, weren’t frowning, nor smiling; they bore an expression Cedric had never seen before.

“And what are you gonna do?” asked the prince, “kill them all?” And Cedric was sure the tone must have been meant to be challenging, but it sounded earnest instead. 

“Just say the word,” he smirked, lips curving under Prince Sullivan’s fingers.

The young prince broke out in laughter.

It was sudden, unexpected, and probably another case of that mysterious talent Cedric had, of saying things in all seriousness and having them sound like jokes.

The prince’s face moved closer to Cedric’s, and both his hands were on the guard’s face, brushing fingers through his beard in circular motions. “That sounded like a line out of a story,” commented the prince, quietly.

His breath was warmer than the summer air around them.

Cedric should really have moved away, he should have stood up, he should have been everywhere but there — and at the same time, he couldn’t be anywhere but in the sole place in the world where he ever truly felt needed. He should have shied away from the prince’s touch, but he would never forgive himself for that, for taking away that dimension of his world.

He stood as still as possible. “I’m serious,” he voiced, thinly.

Prince Sullivan nodded. “I know,” he whispered, and their breaths were merging.

Sullivan’s lips were chapped, warm, and they tasted salty. They must have touched Cedric’s wet mouth for no more than a second, and yet it seemed like they would never leave. They sent his heart running so fast it seemed to be beating in his throat. The hands keeping his face in place (as if there was any need to, frozen in place as he was) were warm, soft, and their touch, however firm, still managed to be gentle.

Once they parted, Cedric had to resist pulling the prince back in for a second kiss, and a third. He had to remind himself of who he was, and who the person was in front of him, who smelled of rosemary and musk, wore silk and satin, lived in a castle where his own rooms were twice the size of a dorm room in the barracks, and, most of all, relied on Cedric for protection.

“Thank you,” the prince whispered, standing back up. “I’ll do my best to repay your trust.”

 

 

 **Oikeiôsis (οἰκείωσις)**.  
Greek / n. / əʊ.kaɪˈəʊ.sɪs ‘ _oh-kye-oh-siss_.

The perception of something as one’s own, as belonging to oneself; appropriation, familiarization, affinity, affiliation, endearment.

**Author's Note:**

> It's hard for me to explain what a beautiful experience has been, writing this fic.  
> It is my creature, one I'm proud of, but also one that I wish could have been longer, better. I really don't want to part from Cedric and Sullivan, and I'm hoping this won't be farewell. Regardless, these two have carved a place for themselves in my heart and I'm sure they won't leave anytime soon, and I only have you to thank for it, greygerbil!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the work, and that these characters spoke to you as much as they did to me!
> 
> Huge thanks to my trusted beta and #1 supporter, El, who provided her corrections super fast and saved my idiot ass that always finished exchange fics at the last possible minute. A big thank you to my s.o. who's a huge HEMA enthusiast and looked over the fighting scenes to check for realism. And of course, thanks to my friend who supported me and helped me through the emotional part of the creative process.
> 
> And, last but not least, thanks to everyone who'll decide to leave a comment!


End file.
